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TEST  TARGET  (M.T-3) 


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23  WEST  MAt><  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.y.  M580 

(716)  873-4503 


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fA 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  miciroreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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n 


D 


n 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommag^e 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pellicul6e 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


D 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  gdographiques  en  couleur 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
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Bound  with  other  material/ 
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Tight  binding  ma/  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

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y 


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This  item  is  filmed  at  .:he  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmd  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 

10X  14X  18X  22X 


C 


12X 


16X 


20X 


26X 


30X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 


L'exemplaire  film6  f ut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
ginirositt  de: 


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Yoric  University 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
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York  University 

Les  images  suivantes  ont  4t6  reproduites  avec  lo 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettetd  de  l'exemplaire  film6.  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
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first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  ^^>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couvertura  en 
papier  est  imprimis  sont  filmds  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tou&  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmis  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  de^nidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparattra  sur  la 
derniire  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ".  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  6tre 
filmds  d  des  taux  da  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  ctich6,  il  est  filmi  d  partit 
de  I'angle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  ndcessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

tayistock:  tales 


».      '       V 


CO 


bo 

ft" 


(M 


3 


^ 


CO 


n 

*5 


H 


SSP 


■«■. 


TAVISTOCK     TALES 


Br 


Gilbert  Parker      Luke  Sharp 

Lame  Falconer      Rose  Metcalfe      Michael  A.  Mornmn 

G.  II  Bimjin    Blanche  Atkinson    H.  Guthrie-Smith 

A.  M.  Cameron      A.  S.  Boyd 


Olttt)  rtjirtB^ttoo  lEIlu^tratiaiiB 


BT 


Gordon  Browne 

W.  D.  Almond      U.  Barnes    •  W.  Rainey 

W.  Lockhart  Bogle      A.  S.  Boyd^ 


NEW  YORK 

TAIT     SONS    AND     COMPANY 

31  UNION  SQUARE  NORTH 
1893 


i^^3 


:if 


CONTENTS. 


1.  THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

By  Gilbert  Parker.  /~T 

Illustrated  bv  Gordon  Browne  . 


rxax 


9 


2,  SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER. 
By  Luke  Sharp. 

Illustrated  by  Gordon  Browne    . 


67 


3.  THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 
By  Lanob  Falconer       ,    r  , 


86 


4.  PENSEE. 

By  Rose  Metcalfe. 

Illustrated  by  Gordon  Browne  . 


104 


6.  A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE. 
By  Michael  A.  Morrison 


.    137 


w 


If 


8 


CONTENTS. 


6.  THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  COKNEES. 
By  G.  B.  BuRGiN. 


'^m^ 


Illustrated  hj  W.  D.  Almond 


rAOi 


.    146 


?■■!  ■ 


7.  FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 

By  A.  M.  Cameron. 

Illuatrated  by  R.  Barnes     .        ,        . 

8.  TOTTIE. 

By  H.  Ciuthrie-Smith. 

Illufitrated  by  W.  Lockhart  Boglf 

9.  MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

By  Blanche  Atkinson. 
-  Illustrated  by  W.  Rainby     ;       #        . 


,    172 


.    191 


.    210 


10.  THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  TL^E  GOLDEN  STAR. 
By  A.  S.  Boyd.  ' 

•    lUmtraied  by  A.  S.  Boyd    .      ';'     .       .    235 


IL  A  GPRIG  OF  LAVENDER. 
By  A.  M.  Cameron 


245 


>4^»f^- 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


By  GILBEKT  TARKER. 

8K  Mr.  Hume  to  come  hero  for  a  moment, 
Gosse,"  said  Field,  the  Chief  Factor,  as 
he  turned  from  the  frosty  window  of  his 
office  at  Fort  Providence,  one  of  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  posts.  The 
servant,  or  more  i)ropcrly,  Orderly-Ser- 
geant Gosse,  late  of  the  Scots  Guards, 
departed  on  his  errand,  glancing  curiously  at  his 
master's  face  as  he  did  so.  The  Chief  Factor,  as  he 
turned  round,  unclasped  his  hands  from  behind  him, 
took  a  few  steps  forward,  then  standing  still  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  read  careftiHy  through  a  letter 
which  he  had  held  in  tho  fingers  of  his  right  hand 
for  the  last  ten  minutes  as  he  scanned  the  wastes  of 
snow  that  stretched  away  beyond  Great  Slave  Lake 
to  the  Arctic  Circle  and  the  Barren  Grounds.  He 
meditated  a  moment,  went  back  to  the  window, 
looked  out  again,  shook  hin  head  negatively,  and  with 


10     THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD. 

a  sigh,  walked  over  to  the  huge  fireplace.     He  stood 
thoughtfully  considering   the   floor  until   the    door 
opened  and  Sub-factor  Jaspar  Hume  entered.     The 
Factor  looked  up  and  said,  "  Hume,  I've  something 
here  that's  been  worrying  me   a  bit.     This  letter 
came  in  the  monthly  batch  this  morning.     It  is  from 
a  woman.     The  Company  sends  another  commending 
tlie  cause  of  the  woman  and  urging  us  to  do  all  that 
is  possible  to  meet  her  wishes.    It  seems  that  her  hus- 
band is  a  civil  engineer  of  considerable  fame.     He 
had  a  col. mission  to  explore  the  Copper  Mine  region 
and  a  portion  of  the  Barren  Grounds.     He  was  to  be 
gone  six  months.     He  has  been  gone  a  year.     He 
left  Fort  Good  Hope,  skirted  Great  Bear  Lake,  and 
reached  the  Copper  Mine  River.     Then  he  sent  back 
all  of  the  Indians  who  accompanied  him  but  two, 
they  bearing  the  message  that  he  would  make  the 
Great  Fish  River  and  come  down  by  Great  Slave  Lake 
to  Fort  Providence.    That  was  nine  months  ago.     He 
has  not  come  here,  nor  to  any  other  of  the  forts,  nor 
has  any  word  been  received  from  him.  His  wife,  backed 
by  the  H.B.C.,  urges  that  a  relief  party  be  sent  to 
look  for  him.     They  and  she  forget  that  this  is  the 
Arctic  region,  and  that  the  task  is  a  well-nigh  hopeless 
one.     He  ought  to  have  been  here  six  months  ago. 
Now  how  can  we  do  anything  ?  Our  fort  is  small,  and 
there  is  always  danger  of  trouble  with  the  Indians. 
We  can't  force  men  to  join  a  relief  party  like  this, 
and  who  will  volunteer  ?     Who  would  lead  such  a 
party  and  who  will  make  up  the  party  to  be  led  ?  " 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD,      ii 


The  brown  face  of  Jaspar  Hume  was  not  mobile. 
It  changed  in  expression  but  seldom  ;  it  preserved  a 
steady  and  satisfying  character  of  intelligence  and 
force.  The  eyes,  however,  were  of  an  inquiring,  de- 
bating kind,  that  moved  from  one  thing  to  another 
as  if  to  get  a  sense  of  balance  before  opinion  or 
judgment  was  expressed.  The  face  had  remained 
impassive,  but  the  eyes  had  kindled  a  little  as  the 
Factor  talked.  To  the  Factor's  despairing  question 
there  was  not  an  immediate  reply.  The  eyes  were 
debating.  But  they  suddenly  steadied  o,nd  Jaspar 
Hume  said  sententiously,  "A  relief  party  should  go." 
"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  who  is  to  lead  them  ?  " 
Again  the  eyes  debated. 

"  Read  her  letter,"  said  the  Factor,  handing  him  it. 
Jaspar  Hume  took  it  and  mechanically  scanned  it. 
The  Factor  had  moved  towards  the  table  for  his 
pipe  or  he  would  have  seen  the  other  start,  and  his 
nostrils  slightly  quiver  as  his  eyes  grew  conscious  of 
what  they  were  looking  at.  Turning  quickly,  Jaspar 
Hume  walked  towards  the  window  as  if  for  more 
light,  and  with  his  back  to  his  superior  he  read  the 
letter.  Then  he  turned  and  said,  "  I  think  this  thing 
should  be  done." 

The  Factor  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly  : 
"  Well,  as  to  that,  I  think  so  too,  but  thinking  and 
doing  are  two  different  things,  Hume.'* 

"  Will  you  leave  the  matter  in  my  hands  until  the 
morning  ? " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  and  glad  to  do  so.    You  are  the 


iz      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

only  man  who  can  arrange  the  affair,  if  it  is  to  be 
done  at  all.  But  I  tell  you,  as  you  know,  that  every- 
thing will  depend  upon  a  leader,  even  if  you  secure 
the  men.  ...  So  you  had  better  keep  the  letter  for 
to-night.  It  may  help  you  to  get  the  men  together. 
A  woman's  handwriting  will  do  more  than  a  man's 
word  any  time." 

Jaspar  Hume's  eyes  had  been  looking  at  the 
Factor,  but  they  were  studying  something  else.  His 
face  seemed  not  quite  so  fresh  as  it  was  a  few  minutes 
before. 

"  I  will  see  you  at  ten  o'clock  to-morrow  morning, 
Mr.  Field,"  he  said  quietly.  "Will  you  let  Gosse 
come  to  me  in  an  hour  ? " 

"Certainly.     Goodnight." 

Jaspar  Hume  let  himself  out.  He  walked  across  a 
small  square  to  a  log-house  and  opened  the  door,  which 
creaked  and  shrieked  with  the  frost.  A  dog  sprang 
upon  him  as  he  did  so,  and  rubbed  its  head  against 
his  breast.  He  touched  the  head  as  if  it  had  been 
that  of  a  child,  and  said,  "  Lie  down,  Jacques." 

It  did  so,  but  it  watched  him  as  he  doffed  his  dog- 
skin cap  and  buffalo  coat.  He  looked  round  the  room 
slowly  once  as  if  he  wished  to  fix  it  clearly  and  deeply 
in  his  mind.  Then  he  sat  down  and  held  near  the 
firelight  the  letter  the  Factor  had  given  him.  His 
features  grew  set  and  stern  as  he  read  it.  Once  he 
paused  in  the  reading  and  looked  into  the  fire,  draw- 
ing his  breath  sharply  between  his  teeth.  Then  he 
read  it  to  the  end  without  a  sign.     A  pause,  and  he 


dog- 

iroom 

leeply 

Ir  the 

His 

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Iraw- 

he 

Id  he 


a 


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PJ 

w 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD.      15 

said,  "  So  this  is  how  the  lines  meet  again,  Varre 
1    Lepage !  "     He  read  the  last  sentence  of  the  letter 
aloud :  ' 

'*  In  the  hope  that  you  may  soon  give  me  good 
news  of  my  husband,  I  am,  with  all  respect, 

•*  Sincerely  yours, 

"Rose  Lepage." 

Again  he  repeated,  "  With  all  respect,  sincerely 
yours.  Rose  Lepa<]fe." 

The  dog  Jacques  looked  up.  Perhaps  it  detected 
something  unusual  in  the  voice.  It  rose,  came  over, 
and  laid  its  head  on  its  master's  knee.  Jaspar 
Hume's  hand  fell  gently  on  the  head,  and  he  said  to 
the  fire,  "  Rose  Lepage,  you  can  write  to  Factor  Field 
what  you  dare  not  write  to  your  husband  if  you 
knew  !  You  might  say  to  him  then, '  With  all  love,' 
but  not '  With  all  respect.'  " 

He  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
Then  he  took  the  dog's  head  between  his  hands  and 
said  :  "  Listen,  Jacques,  and  I  will  tell  you  a  story." 
The  dog  blinked,  and  pushed  its  nose  against  its 
master's  arm. 

'*  Ten  years  ago  two  young  men  who  had  studic  d 
and  graduated  together  at  the  same  college  were 
struggling  together  in  their  profession  as  civil  engi- 
neers. One  was  Varre  Lepage  and  the  other  was 
Jaspar  Hume.  The  one  was  brilliant  and  persuasive, 
the  other  was  persistent  and  studious.  Varre  Lepage 
could  have   succeeded    in   any   profession ;    Jaspar 


m 


i6      THi:  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

Hume  had  only  heart  and  mind  for  one.  Only  foi* 
one,  Jacques,  you  understand.  He  lived  in  it,  he 
loved  it,  he  saw  great  things  to  be  achieved  in  it. 
He  had  got  an  idea.  He  worked  at  it  night  and 
day,  he  thought  it  out,  he  developed  it,  he  perfected 
it,  he  was  ready  to  give  it  to  the  world.  But  he  was 
seized  with  illness,  became  blind,  and  was  ordered  to 
a  warm  climate  for  a  year.  He  left  his  idea,  his 
invention,  behind  him — his  complete  idea.  While 
he  was  gone  his  bosom  friend  stole  his  perfected  idea 
— ^yes,  stole  his  perfected  idea,  and  sold  it  for  twenty 
thousand  dollars.  He  was  called  a  genius,  a  great 
inventor.  And  then  he  married  licr.  You  don't 
know  her,  Jacques.  You  never  saw  pretty  Rose 
Varcoe,  who,  liking  two  men,  chose  the  one  who  was 
handsome  and  brilliant,  and  whom  the'  world  called 
a  genius.  Why  didn't  Jaspar  Hume  expose  him, 
Jacques  ?  Proof  is  not  always  easy,  and  then  he  had 
to  think  of  her.  One  has  to  think  of  a  woman  in 
such  a  case,  Jacques.    Even  a  dog  can  see  that." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said, 
**  Come,  Jacques.  You  will  keep  secret  what  I  show 
you." 

He  went  to  a  large  box  in  the  corner,  unlocked  it, 
and  took  out  a  model  made  of  brass  and  copper  and 
smooth  but  unpolished  wood. 

"  After  ten  years  of  banishment,  Jacques,  he  has 
worked  out  another  idea,  you  see.  It  should  be 
worth  ten  times  the  other,  and  the  world  called  the 
other  the  work  of  a  genius,  dog." 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


17 


woman  m 


Then  he  became  silent,  the  animal  watching  him 
the  while.  It  had  seen  him  working  at  this  model 
for  many  a  day,  but  had  never  heard  lam  talk  so 
much  at  a  time  as  he  had  done  this  last  ten  minutes. 
Jaspar  Hume  was  generally  a  silent  man  ;  decisive 
even  to  severity,  careless  carriers  and  shirking  under- 
officers  thought.  Yet  none  could  complain  that  he 
was  unjust.  He  wa.s  simply  straig^ttforward,  and  he 
had  no  sympathy  with  those  who  were  not  the  same. 
He  had  carried  a  drunken  Indian  on  his  back  for 
miles,  and  from  a  certain  death  by  frost.  He  had, 
for  Avant  of  a  more  convenient  punishment,  promptly 
knocked  down  Jeff  Hyde,  the  sometime  bully  of  the 
Fort,  for  appropriating  a  bundle  of  furs  belonging  to 
a  French  half-breed,  Gasp^  Toujours.  But  he  nursed 
Jeff  Hyde  through  an  attack  of  pneumonia,  insisting 
at  the  same  time  that  Gasp^  Toujours  should  help 
him.  The  result  of  it  all  was  that  Jeff  Hyde  and 
Gaspe  Toujours  became  constant  allies.  They  both 
formulated  their  oaths  by  Jaspar  Hume.  The  Indian, 
Cloud-in-the-Sky,  though  by  word  never  thanking 
his  rescuer,  could  not  bo  induced  to  leave  the  Fort, 
except  on  some  mission  with  which  Jasjmr  Hume 
was  connected.  He  preferred  living  an  undignified, 
an  un-Indian  life,  and  earning  his  food  and  shelter 
by  coarsely  labouring  with  his  hands.  He  came  at 
least  twice  a  week  to  Jaspar  Hume's  log-house,  and, 
sitting  down  silent  and  cross-legged  before  the  fire, 
watched  the  Sub-factor  working  at  his  drawings  and 
'calculations.     Sitting  so  for  perhaps  an  hour  or  more, 

B 


i8      THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD. 


and  smoking  all  the  time,  he  would  rise,  and  with  a 
grunt,  which  was  answered  by  a  kindly  nod,  would 
pass  out  as  silently  as  ho  came. 

And  now  as  Jaspar  Hume  stood  looking  at  his 
"  Idea,"  Cloud-in- the-Sky  entered,  let  his  blanket 
fall  by  the  hearthstone  and  sat  down  upon  it.  If 
Jaspar  Hume  saw  him  or  heard  him,  he  at  least  gave 
no  sign  at  first.  He  said  in  a  low  tone  to  the  dog, 
"  It  is  finished,  Jacques  ;  it  is  ready  for  the  world." 

Then  he  put  it  back,  locked  the  box,  and  turned 
towards  Cloud-in-the-Sky  and  the  fireplace.  The 
Indian  grunted  ;  the  other  nodded  with  the  debating 
look  again  dominant  in  his  eyes.  The  Indian  met 
the  look  with  stoic  calm.  There  was  something  in 
Jaspar  Hume's  habitual  reticence  and  decisiveness 
in  action  which  appealed  more  to  Cloud-in-the-Sky 
than  any  freedom  of  speech  could  possibly  have 
done. 

Jaspar  Hume  sat  down,  handed  the  Indian  a  pipe 
and  tobacco,  and,  with  arms  folded,  watched  the  fire. 
For  half  an  hour  they  sat  so,  white  man,  Indian,  and 
dog.  Then  Jaspar  Hume  rose  went  to  a  cupboard, 
took  out  some  sealiug-wax  and  matches,  and  in  a 
moment  melted  wax  was  dropping  upon  the  lock  of 
the  box  containing  his  Idea.  He  had  just  finished 
this  as  Sergeant  Gosse  knocked  at  the  door,  and 
immediately  after  entered  the  room. 

"Gosse,"  said  the  Sub-factor,  "find  J^fF  Hyde, 
Gaspe  Toujours,  and  Late  Carscallen,  and  bring  them 
here."     Sergeant  Gosse  immediately  departed  upon 


RD. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.      19 


1  witli  a 
1,  would 

<r  at  his 
blanket 

m  it.    If 

east  gave 

>  the  dog, 

I  world." 

tid  turned 

,ce.      The 

e  debating 

ndian  met 

[nething  in 

jecisiveness 
n-the-Sky 
iibly  have 

[ian  a  pipe 

^d  the  fire. 

Indian,  and 
cupboard, 
and  in  a 
the  lock  of 

1st  finished 
door,  and 

^-eff  Hyde, 
)ring  them 
Irted  upon 


this  errand.  Jaspar  Hume  then  turned  to  Cloud-in- 
the-Sky,  and  said,  "  Cloud-in- the-Sky,  I  want  you  to 
go  a  long  journey  h*  reaway  to  the  liarren  Grounds. 
Have  twelve  dogs  ready  by  nine  o'clock  to-morrow 
morning," 

Cloud-in-the-Sky  shook  his  head  thoughtfully, 
and  then  after  a  pause  said,  "  Strong-back  go  too  ?  " 
(Strong-back  was  his  name  for  Jaspar  Hume.)  But 
the  other  either  did  not  or  would  not  hear.  The 
Indian,  however,  appeared  satisfied,  for  he  smoked 
harder  afterwards,  and  grunted  to  himself  many 
times.  A  few  moments  passed,  and  then  Sergeant 
Gosse  entered,  followed  by  Jeft'  Hyde,  Gaspe  Tou- 
jou^s,  and  Late  Carscallen.  Late  Carscallen  had  got 
his  name  "  Late "  from  having  been  called  "  The 
Late  Mr.  Carscallen  "  by  the  Chief  Factor  because  of 
his  slowness.  Slow  as  he  was,  however,  the  stout 
Scotsman  had  more  than  once  proved  himself  sound 
and  true  according  to  Jaspar  Hume's  ideas.  He 
was,  of  course,  the  last  to  enter.  .: 

The  men  grouped  themselves  about  tne  fire,  Late 
Carscallen  getting  the  coldest  corner.  Each  man 
drew  his  tobacco  from  his  pocket,  and,  cutting  it, 
waited  for  Sub-factor  Hume  to  speak.  His  eyes  were 
debating  as  they  rested  on  the  four.  Then  he  took 
out  Rose  Lepage's  letter,  and,  with  the  group  look- 
ing at  him  now,  he  read  it  aloud.  When  it  was 
finished  Cloud-in-the-Sky  gave  a  guttural  assent,  and 
Gaspe  Toujours,  looking  at  Jeff  Hyde,  said,  "It  is 
cold  in  the  Barren  Grounds.     We  shall  need  much 


20     THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD. 


tabac."  These  men  could  read  without  difficulty 
Jaspar  Hume's  reason  for  summoning  them.  To 
Gaspe  Toujours'  remark  Jeff  Hyde  nodded  affirma- 
tively, and  then  all  looked  at  Late  Carscallen.  He 
opened  his  heavy  jaws  once  or  twice  with  an  animal- 
like sound,  and  then  he  said,  in  a  general  kind  of 
way, 

"To  the  Barren  Grounds.     But  who  leads?  " 

Jaspar  Hume  was  writing  on  a  slip  of  paper,  and 
he  did  not  reply.  The  faces  of  three  of  them  showed 
just  a  shade  of  anxiety.  They  had  their  opinions, 
but  they  were  not  sure.  Cloud-in-the-Sky,  however, 
grunted  at  them,  and  raised  the  bowl  of  his  pipe 
towards  the  Sub-factor.  The  anxiety  then  seemed  to 
be  dispelled. 

For  ten  minutes  more  they  sat  so,  all  silent. 
Then  Jaspar  Hume  rose,  handed  the  slip  of  paper 
to  Sergeant  Gosse,  and  said,  "Attend  to  that  at 
once,  Gosse.  Examine  the  food  and  blankets 
closely."'       ,    . 

The  five  were  left  alone. 

Then  Jaspar  Hume  spoke  :  "Jeff  Hyde,  Gasp^ 
Toujours,  Late  Carscallen,  and  Cloud-in-the-Sky,  this 
man,  alive  or  dead,  is  between  here  and  the  Barren 
Grounds.  He  must  be  found — for  his  wife's  sake," 
He  handed  Jeff  Hyde  her  letter.  Jeff  Hyde  rubbed 
his  fingers  before  he  touched  the  delicate  and  per- 
fumed missive.  Its  delicacy  seemed  to  bewilder  him. 
He  said  in  a  rough  but  kindly  way,  "  Hope  to  die  if 
I  don't,"  and  passed   it  on  to  Gaspe  Toujours,  who 


I 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     21 


(lid  not  find  it  necessary  to  speak.  Hi3  comrade  had 
answered  for  him.  Late  Carscallon  held  it  inquisi- 
tively for  a  moment,  and  then  his  jaws  opened  and 
shut  as  if  he  were  about  to  speak.  But  before  he 
did  so  the  Sub-factor  said,  "  It  is  a  long  journey  and 
a  hard  one.  Those  wlio  go  may  never  come  back. 
But  this  man  was  working  for  his  country,  and  he 
has  got  a  wife — a  good  wife ! "  He  held  up  the 
letter.  "  Late  Carscallen  wants  to  know  who  will 
lead  you.  Can't  you  trust  me  ?  I  will  give  you  a 
leader  that  you  will  follow  to  the  Barren  Grounds. 
To-morrow  you  will  know  who  he  is.  Men,  are  you 
satisfied  ?     Will  you  do  it  ?  " 

The  four  rose,  and  Cloud-In-the-Sky  nodded 
approvingly  many  times.  The  Sub-factor  held  out 
his  hand.  Each  man  shook  it,  Jeff  Hyde  first ;  and 
he  said,  "  Close  up  ranks  for  the  H.B.C.  !  "  (H.B.C. 
meaning  of  course  Hudson's  Bay  Company.) 

With  a  good  man  to  lead  them  they  would  have 
stormed,  alone,  the  Heights  of  Balaklava. 

Once  more  Jaspar  Hume  spoke  :  "  Go  to  Gosse 
and  get  your  outfits  at  nine  to-morrow  morning. 
Cloud-in-the-Sky,  have  your  sleds  at  the  store  at 
eight  o'clock,  to  be  loaded.  Then  all  meet  me 
at  10.15  at  the  office  of  the  Chief  Factor.  Good 
night." 

As  they  passed  out  into  the  semi-arctic  night,  Late 
Carscallen  with  an  unreal  obstinacy  said,  "Slow 
march  to  the  Barren  Grounds — but  who  leads  ?  " 

Left  alone  the  Sub-factor  sat  down  to   the  pine 


22      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

table  at  one  end  of  the  room  and  after  a  short  hesi- 
tation began  to  write.  For  hours  he  sat  there,  rising 
only  to  put  wood  on  the  fire.  The  result  was  three 
letters  :  the  largest  addressed  to  a  famous  society  in 
London,  one  to  a  solicitor  iu  Montreal,  and  one  to  Mr. 
Field,  the  Chief  Factor.  Thej  -were  all  sealed  care- 
fully. Then  Jaspar  Hume  rose,  took  out  his  knife 
and  went  over  to  the  box  as  if  to  break  the  red  seal. 
He  paused,  however,  sighed,  and  put  the  knife  back 
again.  As  he  did  so  he  felt  something  touch  his 
leg.  It  was  the  dog.  Jaspar  Hume  drew  in  a 
sharp  breath  and  said,  "  It  was  all  ready,  Jacques ; 
and  in  another  three  months  I  should  have;  been  in 
London  with  it.  But  it  will  go  whether  I  go  or  not 
— whether  I  go  or  not,  Jacques."  The  dog  sprang 
up  and  put  his  head  against  his  master's  breast. 

'•  Good  dog !  good  dog  !  it's  all  right,  Jacques ; 
however  it  goes,  it's  all  right ! " 

Then  the  dog  lay  down  and  watched  the  man  until 
he  drew  the  blankets  to  his  chin,  and  sleep  drew 
oblivion  over  a  fighting  but  masterly  soul. 


'Mr 


a. 


At  ten  o'clock  next  morning  Jaspar  Hume  pre- 
sented himself  at  the  Chief  Factor's  office.  He  bore 
with  him  the  letters  he  had  written  the  night  before. 

The  Factor  said,  "Well,  Hume,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you.    That  woman's  letter  was  on  my  mind  all  night. 


V. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     23 


hesi- 
,  rising 
i  three 
;iety  in 
to  Mr. 
\  care- 
s  knife 
ed  seal. 
ife  back 
uch  his 
w  in   a 
[acques ; 

been  in 
3  or  not 
g  sprang 

xst.       '^A. 
acques ; 

ban  until 
ep  drew 


|irne  pre- 
He  bore 

it  before. 

td  to  see 
9.11  night. 


Have  you  anything  to  propose  ?  I  suppose  not,"  he 
added  despairingly,  as  he  looked  closely  into  the 
fiace  of  the  other. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Field,  I  propose  this  :  that  the  expedi- 
tion shall  start  at  noon  to-day." 

"  Shall — start — at  noon — to-day  ?  '* 

••  In  two  hours." 

"  But,  who  are  the  party  ?  " 

"  Jeff  Hyde,  Gaspe  Toujours,  Late  Carscallen  and 
Cloud-in-the-Sky. " 

"  And  who  leads  them,  Hume  ?    Who  leads  ? "    = 

"With  your  permission,  sir,  I  do." 

*'  You,  Hume !  You !  But,  man,  consider  the 
danger  I  And  then  there  is — there  is,  your  inven- 
tion!" 

*'  I  have  considered  all.  Here  are  three  letters.  If 
we  do  not  come  back  in  three  months,  you  will  please 
send  this  one,  with  the  box  in  my  room,  to  the  address 
on  the  envelope  ;  this  is  for  a  solicitor  in  Montreal, 
which  you  will  also  forward  as  soon  as  possible  ;  this 
last  one  is  for  yourself ;  but  you  will  not  open  it  until 
the  three  months  have  passed.  Have  I  your  per- 
mission to  lead  these  men  ?  Thev  would  not  ifo 
without  me  " 

"I  know  that,  I  know  that,  Hume.  I  hate  to 
have  you  go,  but  I  can't  say  no.  Go,  and  good  luck 
go  with  you." 

Here  the  manly  old  Factor  turned  away  his  head. 
He  knew  that  Jaspar  Hume  had  done  right.  He 
knew  the  possible  sacrifice  this  man  was  making  of 


24-     THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

all  Ills  liopes,  of  his  very  life ;  and  his  sound 
Scotch  heart  appreciated  the  act  to  the  full.  But 
he  did  not  know  all.  He  did  not  kno\,'  that  Jaspar 
Hume  was  starting  to  look  for  the  man  who  had 
robbed  him  of  youth  and  hope  nnd  genius  and 
home.  , 

"  Here  Is  a  letter  that  the  wife  has  written  to  her 
husband  in  the  hope  that  he  is  alive.  Yon  will  take 
ic  with  you,  Hume.  And  the  other  she  wrote  to  me, 
shall  I  keep  it  \  "      He  held  out  his  hand.  -      ^ 

"  No,  sir,  1  will  iceep  it,  if  you  will  allow  me.  It  Is 
my  commission,  you  know."  And  the  shadow  of  a 
smile  hovered  about  Jaspar  Hume's  lips. 

The  Factor  smiled  kindly  as  he  replied,  "  Ah,  yes, 
your  commission — Captain  Jaspar  Hume  of — of  what, 

Hume?"  ^  ^-_w.  ;.  _  :,;•■.■■■■■::         ■:-„■:■)-•-.-;;.;.■■.;:-;  ^  /- 

Just  then  the  door  opened  and  there  entered  the 
four  men  whom  we  saw  around  the  Sub-factor's  fire 
the  night  before.  They  were  dressed  in  white  blanket 
costumes  from  head  to  foot,  white  woollen  ca^potes 
covering  the  grey  far  caps  they  wore.  Jaspar  Hume 
ran  his  eye  over  them  and  then  answered  the  Factor's 
question  :   "  Of  the  White  Guard,  sir." 

"  Good,"  was  the  reply.  "  Men,  you  are  going  on 
a  relief  expedition — one  in  which  there  is  danger. 
You  need  a  good  leader.  You  have  one  in  Captain 
Jaspar  Hume." 

Jeff  Hyde  shook  his  head  at  the  others  with  a 
pleased  I-told-you-so  expression ;  Cloud-in-the-Sky 
grunted   his    deep    approval;    and  Late   Carscallen 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.      25 


smacked  his  lips  ia  a  satisfied  manner  and  rubbed 
his  leg  with  a  school-boy  sense  of  enjoyment.  The 
Factor  continued  :  "  In  the  name  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company  I  will  say  that  if  you  come  back,  having 
done  your  duty  faithfully,  you  shall  be  well  rewarded. 
And  I  believe  you  will  come  back,  if  it  is  in  human 
power  to  do  so."         - 

Here  Jeff  Hyde  said,  "  It  isn't  for  reward  we're 
doin'  it,  Mr.  Field,  but  because  Captain  Hume  wished 
it,  because  we  believed  he'd  lead  us  ;  and  for  the  lost 
fellow's  wife.  We  wouldn't  have  said  we'd  do  it,  if 
it  wasn't  for  him  that's  just  called  us  the  White 
Cuard." 

Under  the  bronze  of  the  Sub -factor's  face  there 
spread  a  glow  more  red  than  brown,  and  he  sai<l 
,  simply,  "  Thank  you,  men  " — for  they  had  all  nodded 
[assent  to  Jeff  Hyde's  words — "Come  with  me  to  the 
[store.     We  will  start  at  noon." 

And  at  noon  the  White  Guard  stood  in  front  of 
|tlie  store  on  which  the  British  flag  was  hoisted  with 
[another  beneath  it  bearing  the  magic  letters,  H.B.C.  : 
[magic,  because  they  have  opened  to  the  world  re- 
[gioLS  that  seemed  destined  never  to  know  the  touch 
)f  civilisation.  The  few  inhabitants  of  the  Fort  had 
gathered  ;  the  dogs  and  loaded  sleds  were  at  the 
loor.  The  White  Guard  were  there  too — all  but 
their  leader.  It  wanted  but  two  minutes  to  twelve 
^hen  Jaspar  Hume  came  from  bis  house,  dressed 
lilso  in  the  white  blanket  costume,  and  followed  by 
lis  dog,  Jacques.     In  a  moment  more  he  had  placed 


26      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

Jacques  at  the  head  of  the  first  team  of  dogs.  They 
were  to  have  their  leader  too ;  and  they  testified  to 
the  fact  by  a  bark  of  approval.  Punctually  at  noon, 
Jaspar  Hume  shook  hunds  with  the  Factor,  said  a 
quick  good-bye  to  the  rest,  called  out  a  friendly 
"How!"  to  the  Indians  standing  near,  and  to  the 
sound  of  a  hearty  cheer,  neartier  pbxliaps  because 
none  had  a  confident  hope  that  the  five  would  come 
back,  the  March  of  the  White  Guard  began. 


m. 

It  is  eighteen  days  after.  In  the  shadow  of  a 
little  island  of  pines,  that  lies  in  a  shivering  waste 
of  ice  and  snow,  the  White  Guard  camp.  They  are 
able  to  do  this  night  what  they  have  not  done  for 
days — dig  a  great  grave  of  .snow,  and  building  a 
fire  of  pine  wood  at  each  end  of  this  strange  house, 
get  protection  and  something  like  comfort.  They 
sit  close  to  the  fires.  Jaspar  Hume  is  writing  with 
numbed  fingers.  The  extract  that  follows  is  taken 
from  his  diary.  It  tells  that  day's  life,  and  so  gives 
an  idea  of  harder,  sterner  days  that  they  have  spent 
and  will  spend,  on  this  weary  journey. 

''December  25th. — This  is  Christmas  Day  and 
Camp  twenty-seven.  We  have  marched  only  five 
miles  to-day.  We  are  eighty  miles  from  Great  Fish 
Kiver,  and  the  worst  yet  to  do.    We  have  discovered 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD,     27 


no  signs, 


Jeff  Hyde  has  had  a  bad  two  days  with 
his  frozen  foot.  Gaspe  Toujours  helps  him  nobly. 
One  of  the  dogs  died  this  morning.  Jacques  is  a 
great  leader.  This  night's  shelter  is  a  God-send. 
Cloud-in-the-Sky  has  a  plan  whereby  some  of  us  will 
sleep  well.  We  are  in  latitude  63°  47'  and  longitude 
112°  32'  14".    Have  worked  out  lunar  observations. 

JH 


Have  marked  a  tree 


27 


and  raised  cairn  No.   3. 


We  are  able  to  celebrate  Christmri  '^■'v  with  a  good 
basin  of  tea,  and  our  stand-by  of  beans  cooked  in  fat. 
I  was  right  about  them  :  they  have  great  sustaining 
power.     To-morrow  we  will  start  at  ten  o'clock." 

The  writing  done,  Jaspar  Hume  puts  his  book  away 
and  turns  towards  the  rest.  Cloud-in-the-Sky  and 
Lato  Carscallen  are  smoking.  Little  can  be  seen  of 
their  faces  ;  they  are  muffled  to  the  eyes.  Gasp^ 
Toujours  is  drinking  a  basin  of  tea,  and  Jeff  Hyde  is 
fitfully  dozing  by  the  fire.  The  dogs  are  above  in  tiie 
tent,  all  but  Jacques,  who  to-night  is  perniitted  to 
be  near  his  master.  The  Sub-factor  rises,  takes  from 
a  knapsack  a  small  tin  pail,  and  puts  it  near  the  fire. 
This  operation  is  watched  by  the  others.  Then  he 
takes  five  little  cups  that  fit  snugly  into  each  other, 
separates  them,  and  puts  them  also  near  the  fire. 
None  of  the  party  speak.  A  change  seems  to  pass 
over  the  faces  of  all  except  Cloud-in-the-Sky.  He 
rsmokes  on  unmoved.  At  length  the  Sub-factor 
[speaks  cheerily  :  "  Now,  men,  before  we  turn  in  we'll 
do   something  in  honour  of  the  day.     Liquor  we 


28     THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

none  of  us  have  touched  since  we  started  ;  but  back 
there  in  the  Fort,  and  maybe  in  other  places  too, 
they  will  be  thinking  of  us ;  so  we'll  drink  a  health 
to  them  though  it's  but  a  spoonful,  and  to  the  day 
when  we  see  them  again  ! " 

The  cups  were  passed  round.  The  Sub-factor 
measured  out  a  very  small  portion  to  each.  They 
were  not  men  of  uncommon  sentiment ;  their  lives 
were  rigid  and  isolated  and  severe.  Fireside  com- 
forts under  fortunate  conr'itions  they  saw  but  seldom, 
and  they  were  not  given  to  expressing  their  feelings 
demonstratively.  But  each  man  then,  save  Cloud-in- 
the-Sky,  had  some  memory  worth  a  resurrection, 
and  hearts  are  hearts  even  under  all  uncouthness. 
Jaspar  Hume  raised  his  cup ;  the  rest  followed  his 
example.  "  To  absent  friends  and  the  day  when  we 
see  them  again!"  he  said;  and  they  all  drank. 
Gasp^  Toujours  solemnly,  and  aa  if  no  one  was  near, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  for  his  memory  was 
with  a  dark-eyed,  soft-cheeked  peasant  girl  of  the 
parish  of  Saint  Gabrielle,  whom  he  had  left  behind 
five  years  before,  and  had  never  seen  since.  Word  had 
come  from  the  parish  priest  that  she  was  dying, 
and  though  he  wrote  back  in  his  homely  patois  of 
his  grief,  and  begged  that  the  good  father  would 
write  again,  no  word  had  ever  come,  and  he  thought 
of  her  now  as  one  for  whom  the  candles  had  been 
lighted  and  masses  had  been  said. 

But  Jeff  Hyde's  eyes  were  bright,  and  suffering  as 
he  was,  the  heart  in  him  was  brave  and  hopeful.    He 


i!i 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD,     29 

was  thiukinq  of  a  glorious  Christmas  Day  upon 
the  Madavvaska  River  three  years  agone ;  of  Adam 
Heury,  the  Wind  fiddler ;  of  bright,  warm-hearted 
Pattie  Chown,  the  belle  of  the  ball,  and  the  long 
drive  home  in  the  frosty  night. 

Late  Carscallen  was  thinking  of  a  brother  whom 
he  had  heard  preach  his  first  sermon  in  Edin- 
burgh ten  years  before.  And  Late  Carscallen,  slow  of 
speech  and  thought,  had  been  full  of  pride  and  love 
jof  that  brilliant  brother.  But  they,  in  the  natural 
I  course  of  things,  drifted  apart ;  the  slow  and  uncouth 
one  to  make  his  home  at  last  not  far  from  the  Arctic 
Circle,  and  to  be  this  night  on  his  way  to  the  Barren 
Grounds.  But  as  he  stood  with  the  cup  to  his  lips 
|he  recalled  the  words  of  a  newspaper  paragraph  of  a 
few  months  before.  It  made  reference  to  the  fact 
that  "  the  Reverend  James  Carscallen,  D.D.,  preached 
)efore  Her  Majesty  on  Whitsunday,  and  had  the 
lonour  of  lunching  with  Her  Majesty  afterwards." 
ind  J'\te  Carscallen  rubbed  his  left  hand  joyfully 
igainst  his  blanketed  leg  and  drank. 

Cloud-in-the-Sky's  thoughts  were  with  the  pre- 
sent, and  his  "Ugh!"  of  approval  was  one  of  the 
Senses  purely.  Instead  of  drinking  to  absent  friends 
le  looked  at  the  Sub-factor  and  said,  "  How  1"  He 
Irank  to  the  Sub-factor.  _   .,„; 

And  Jaspar  Hume,  the  Sub-factor,  what  were  his 
thoughts  ? 

His  was  a  memory  of  childhood ;  of  a  house 
jside  a  swift- flowing  river,  where  a  gentle  widowed 


30      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


mother  braced  her  heart  against  misfortune  and 
denied  herself  an<  slaved  that  her  son  might  be 
educated.  He  had  said  to  her  that  some  day  he 
would  be  a  great  man,  and  she  would  be  paid  back  a 
hundredfold.  And  he  worked  hard  at  school,  very 
hard.  But  one  cold  day  of  spring  a  message  came 
to  the  school,  and  he  sped  homewards  to  the  house 
beside  the  dark  river  down  which  the  ice  was  float- 
ing— he  would  remember  that  floating  ice  to  his 
dying  day — and  entered  a  quiet  room  where  a  white- 
faced  woman  was  breathing  away  her  life.  And  he 
fell  at  her  side  and  kissed  her  hand  and  called  to 
her  ;  and  she  waked  for  a  moment  only  and  smiled 
on  him,  and  said,  "  Be  good,  my  boy,  and  God  will 
make  you  great."  And  then  she  said  she  was  cold. 
And  some  one  felt  her  feet — a  kind  old  soul  who 
shook  her  head  sadly  at  the  mother  and  looked 
pityingly  at  him  ;  and  a  voice  rising  out  of  a  strange 
smiling  languor  murmured,  "I'll  away,  I'll  away  to 
the  Promised  Land — to  the  Promised  Land  !  It  is 
cold — so  cojd — God  keep  my  boy  I"  And  the  voice 
ceased,  and  the  kind  old  soul  who  had  looked  at  him 
pityingly  folded  her  arms  about  hivn,  and  drew  his 
brown  head  to  her  breast  and  kissed  him  with  flow- 
ing eyes  and  whispered,  "  Come  away,  dear,  come 
away." 

But  he  came  back  in  the  night  and  sat  beside  her, 
and  would  not  go  away,  but  remained  there  till  the 
sun  grew  bright,  and  then  through  another  day  and 
night  until  they  bore  her  out  of  the  little  house  by  | 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD.     31 


the  river  to  the  frozen  hill-side.     And  the  world  was 
empty  and  the  icy  river  seemed  warmer   than  his 

heart. 

And  sitting  here  in  this  winter  desolation  Jasper 
Hume  beholds  these  scenes  of  twenty  years  before 
jmd  follows  himself,  a  poor  dispensing    clerk    in  a 
doctor's  office,  working  for   that  dream  of  achieve- 
ment in  which  his  mother  believed ;   for  which  she 
hoped.     And    following    further    the  boy  that   was 
himself,  he  saw  a  friendless  first-year  man  at  college, 
soon,  however,  to  make  a  friend  of  Varre   Lepage, 
land  to  see  always  the  best  of  that  friend,  being  him- 
self so  true.     And  the  day  came  when  they  both 
graduated  together  in  science,  a  bright  and  happy 
day,  succeeded  by  cne  still  brighter,  when  they  both 
entered  a  great  firm  as  junior  partners.     Then  came 
the  meeting  with  Rose  Varcoe  ;  and  he  thought  of 
[how  he  praised  his  friend  Varre  Lepage  to  her,  and 
Ibrought  that  friend  to  be  introduced  to  her.     He 
recalled  all  those  visions  that  came  to  him  when,  his 
)rofessional  triumphs  achieved,   he  should   have  a 
lappy  home,  and  a  happy  face,  and    faces,  by  his 
ireside.     And  the  face  was  to  be  that  of  Rose  Varcoe, 
md  the  others,  faces  of  those  who  should  be  like  her 
ind  like  himself.     He  saw,  or  rather  felt,  that  face 
jlouded  and  anxious  when  he  went  away  ill  and  blind 
for  health's  sake.     He  did  not  write.     The  doctors 
)rbade  him  that.     He  did  not  ask  her  to  write,  for 
us  was  so  strong  and  steadfast  a  nature  that  he  did 
iot  need  letters  to   keep  him  true  ;  ani  he  thought 


i 


B< 


31      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

if  she  cared  for  him  she  must  he  the  same.  lie  did 
not  understand  a  woman's  heart,  liow  it  needs 
remembrances,  and  needs  to  give  remembrances. 

Looking  at  Jaspar  Hume's  face  in  the  hght  of  this 
fire  it  seems  calm  and  cold,  yet  behind  it  is  an 
agony  of  memory,  the  memory  of  the  day  when  he 
discovered  that  Varre  Lepage  was  married  to  Rose 
Varcoe,  and  that  the  trusted  friend  had  grown  famous 
and  well-to-do  on  the  offspring  of  /as  brain.  His 
first  thought  had  been  one  of  fierce  anger  and  deter- 
mination to  expose  this  man  who  had  falsified  all 
trust.  But  then  came  the  thought  of  the  girl,  and, 
most  of  all  there  came  the  words  of  his  dying  mother, 
"  Be  good,  my  boy,  and  God  will  make  you  great," 
and  for  his  mother's  sake  he  had  compassion  on  the 
girl,  and  sought  no  revenge  upon  her  husband.  Rare 
type  of  man,  in  a  sordid,  unchivalric  world !  And 
now,  ten  years  later,  he  did  not  regret  that  he 
had  stayed  his  hand.  The  world  had  ceased  to 
call  Varre  Lepage  a  genius.  He  had  not  fulfilled 
the  hope  that  was  held  of  him.  This  Jaspar 
Hume  knew  from  occasional  references  in  scientific 
journals. 

And  he  was  making  this  journey  to  save,  if  he 
could,  Yarre  Lepage's  life.  And  he  has  no  regret. 
Though  just  on  the  verge  of  a  new  era  in  his  career 
— to  give  to  the  world  the  fruit  of  ten  years'  thought 
and  labour,  he  had  set  all  behind  him  that  he  might 
be  true  to  the  friendship  of  his  youth,  that  he  might 
be  loyal  to  his  manhood,  that  he  might  be  clear 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.      33 

of  the  strokes  of  conscience  to  the  last  hour  of  his 

life. 

Looking  round  him  now,  the  debating  look  comes 
again  into  his  eyes.  He  places  his  hand  in  his  breast, 
and  lets  it  rest  there  for  a  moment.  The  look  be- 
j comes  certain  and  steady,  the  hand  is  drawn  out, 
and  in  it  is  a  Book  of  Common  Prayer.  Upon  the 
Ifly-leaf  is  written,  "  Jane  Hume,  to  her  dear  son 
[Jaspar,  on  his  twelfth  birthday." 

These  men  cf  the  White  Guard  are  not  used  to 
religious  practices,  whatever  their  past  has  been  in 
that  regard,  and  at  any  other  time  they  might  have 
)een  surprised  at  this  action  of  Jaspar  Hume.  Under 
jome  circumstances  it  might  have  lessened  their 
)pinion  of  him,  but  his  influence  over  them  now  was 
somplete.  They  knew  they  were  getting  nearer  to 
lini  than  they  had  ever  done  ;  even  Cloud- in-the- 
Jky  appreciated  that.  He  spoke  no  word  to  them, 
)ut  looked  at  them  and  stood  up.  They  all  did  the 
ime,  Jeff  Hyde  leaning  on  the  shoulders  of  Gaspe 
^oujours.  He  read  first,  four  verses  of  the  Thirty-first 
*salm,  then  followed  the  prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom, 
id  the  beautiful  collect  which  appeals  to  the 
ilmighty  to  mercifully  look  upon  the  infirmities  of 
len,  and  to  stretch  forth  His  hand  to  keep  and 
lefend  them  in  all  dangers  and  necessities.  Late 
farscallen,  after  a  long  pause,  said  "Amen,"  and  Jeff 
[yde  said  in  a  whisper  to  Gaspe  Toujours,  "  That's 
^  the  point.  Infirmities  and  dangers  and  necessities 
what  troubles  us." 

0 


ff 


34      TLE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD. 

Tmmediately  after,  at  a  sign  from  the  Sub -factor, 
Cloud-in-the-Sky  began  to  transfer  the  burning  wood 
from  one  fire  to  the  other  until  only  hot  ashes  were 
left  where  a  great  blaze  had  been.  Over  these  ashes 
pine  twigs  and  branches  were  spread,  and  over  them 
again  blankets.  The  word  was  then  given  to  turn  in, 
and  Jeff  Hyde,  Gasp^  Toujours,  and  Late  Carscallen 
lay  down  in  this  comfortable  bed.  Each  wished  to 
give  way  to  their  captain,  but  he  would  not  consent, 
and  he  and  Cloud-in-the-Sky  wrapped  themselves  in 
their  blankets  like  mummies,  covering  the  head  com- 
pletely, and  under  the  arctic  sky  they  slept  alone  in 
an  austere  and  tenantless  world.  They  never  know 
how  loftily  sardonic  Nature  can  be  who  have  not  seen 
that  land  where  the  mercury  freezes  in  the  tubes,  and 
there  is  light  but  no  warmth  in  the  smile  of  the  sun. 
Not  Sturt  in  the  heart  of  Australin,  with  the  mercury 
bursting  the  fevered  tubes,  with  the  finger-nails  break- 
ing like  brittle  glass,  with  the  ink  drying  instantly  on 
the  pen,  with  the  hair  falling  off  and  fading,  would, 
if  he  could,  have  exchanged  his  lot  for  that  of  the 
White  Guard.  They  are  in  a  frozen  endlessness  that 
stretches  away  to  a  w-i/ld  where  never  voice  of  man 
or  clip  of  wing  or  iroad  of  animal  is  heard.  It  is 
the  threshold  to  the  undiscovered  country,  to  that  | 
untouched  north  whose  fields  of  white  are  only  fur- 
rowed by  the  giant  forces  of  the  elements  ;  on  whose ; 
frigid  hearthstone  no  fire  is  ever  lit ;  a  place  where  I 
the  electric  phantoms  of  a  nightless  land  pass  and 
repass,  and  are  never  still ;  where  the  njagic  needle 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD.      35 

points  not  towards  tlio  north  but  darkly  downward, 
downward  ! — where  the  sun  never  stretches  warm 
hands  to  him  who  dares  confront  the  terrors  of 
j  eternal  snow.  . 

The  White  Guard  sleeps  ! 


"  No,  Captain ;  leave  me  here  and  push  on  to  the 

[anitou  Mountain.     You  ought  to  make  it  iu  two 

lays.     I'm  just  as  safe  here  as  on  the  sleds  and  less 

trouble ;  a  blind  man's  no  good.     I'll  have  a  good 

rest  while  you're  gone,   and  then  perhaps  my  eyes 

rill  come  out  right.     My  foot  is  nearly  well  noAV." 

Yes,  Jeff  Hyde  was  snow-blind.     This,  the  giant 
^f  the  party,  had  suffered  most. 

But  Jaspar  Hume  said,  "  I  won't  leave  you  atone, 
ly  man.  The  dogs  can  carry  you,  as  they've  done 
)r  the  last  ten  days."  • 

But  Jeff  replied,  "  I'm  as  safe  here  as  marching, 
id  safer.     When  the  dogs  are  not  carrying  me,  nor 
ly  one  leading  me,  you  can  get  on  faster  ;  and  that 
^eans  everything  to  us  ;  now  don't  it  ?  " 
Jaspar  Hume  met  the  eyes  of  Gaspe^ To u jours.   He 
id  them.     Then  he  said  to  Jeff  Hyde,  "  It  shall  be 
you  wish.     Late  Carscallen,  Cloud-in-the-Sky,  and 
rself  will   push   on   tc   Manitou  Mountain.     You 
jid  Gaspe  Toujours  will  remain  here." 
Jeff   Hyde's    blind   eyes   turned   towak'ds    Gaspe 


fi  ;» 


36      THE  MARCH  Of  THE  WHITE  GUARD, 

Toujours,  and  Gaspe  Toujours  said,  "Yes.     We  have 
plenty  of  tabac," 

A  tent  was  set  up.  provisions  were  put  in  it,  a 
spii it-lamp  and  matches  were  added,  and  the  simple 
menage  was  complete.  Not  quite.  Jaspar  Hume 
looked  round.  There  was  not  a  tree  in  sight.  He 
stooped  and  cut  away  a  pole  that  was  used  for 
strengthening  the  runners  of  the  sleds ;  iiistened  it 
firmly  in  the  ground,  and  tied  to  it  a  red  woollen 
scarf,  which  he  had  used  for  ticrhtenin;?  his  white 
blankets  round  him.  Then  he  said  :  "  Be  sure  and 
keep  that  flying,  men."  .      . 

Jeff  Hyde's  face  was  turned  towards  the  north. 
The  blind  man's  mstinct  was  coming  to  him.  Far  off 
white  eddvinfj  drifts  were  risincf  over  loncf  hillocks  of 
snow.  AVlien  Jeff  turned  round  again  his  face  was 
slightly  troubled.  It  grew  more  troubled,  then  it 
brightened  up  again,  and  he  said  to  Jaspar  Hume, 
"Captain,  would  you  leave  that  book  with  me  till 
you  come  back — that  about  infirmitie,:^,  dangers,  and 
necessities  ?  I  knew  a  river-boss  who  used  to  carry 
an  eld  spelling-book  round  with  liim  for  luck.  It 
had  belonged  to  a  schoolmaster,  who  took  him  in 
and  did  for  him  when  his  father  and  mother  went 
into  Kingdom  Come.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  that  book 
of  yours,  Cai)ttin,  would  bring  luck  to  this  part  of  the 
White  Guard,  that  bein'  out  at  the  heels  like  has  to 
stay  behind." 

Jaspar  Hume  had  borne  the  sufferings  of  his  life 
■with  courage  ;  he  had  led  this  terrible  tramp  with  no 


'e  have 

In  it,  a 

simplo 

Hume 
It.  He 
sed  for 
ened  it 
woollen 
is  white 
uro  and 

3   north. 
Far  off 

Hocks  of 

face  was 
then  it 

r  Hume, 
me  till 
;ers,  and  | 
to  carry 
ck.  it 
him  in 
er  went 
liat  book  I 
■t  of  tlio 
le  has  to 

his  life 
I  with  no 


THE/MARCH  OF  THE   V/HITE  GUARD.     37 

tremor  at  his  heart  for  himself ;  he  was  seeking  to 
nerform  a  perilous  act  without  any  inward  shi Inking; 
but  Jeff's  request  was  the  greatest  trial  of  this  mo 
nientous  period  in  his  life.  This  book  had  not  left 
liis  breast,  save  when  he  slept,  for  twenty  years.  To 
give  it  up  was  like  throwing  open  the  doors  of  his 
nature  to  such  weaknesses  that  assail  and  conquer 
most  men  at  some  time  or  other  in  their  lives. 

Jeff  Hyde  felt,  if  he  could  not  see,  the  hesitation 
of  his  chief.  His  rough  but  Idnd  instincts  told  him 
something  was  wrong  in  his  request,  and  he  hastened 
to  add,  "Beg  your  pardon,  sir,  it  ain't  no  matter  ;  I 
oughtn't  to  have  asked  you  for  it.  But  it's  just  like 
me  ;  I've  been  a  chain  on  the  leg  of  the  White 
Guard  this  whole  tramp." 

The  moment  of  hesitation  had  passed  before  Jeff 
Hyde  had  said  half-a-dozcu  words,  and  Jaspar  Hume 
put  the  book  in  his  hands  with  the  words,  **  No,  Jeff" 
Hyde,  take  it.  It  iv'dl  bring  luck  to  the  Wiiite 
Guard.  Put  it  wbero  I  have  carried  it,  and  keep  it 
safe  until  I  come  back." 

Jeff  Hyde  placed  the  book  in  his  bosom,  but  hear- 
ing a  guttural  "  Ugh  "  behind  him,  he  turned  round 
defiantly.  The  Indian  touched  his  arm  and  said, 
"  Good !  Strong-back  book — good  !  "  Jeff"  was  satis- 
fied. 

At  this  point  they  parted,  Jeff  Hydo  and  Gaspe 
'I'oujours  remaining,  and  Ja>par  Hume  and  his  two 
followers  going  on  towards  Manitou  Mountain.  There 
seemed  little  probability  that  Varre  Lepage  would  be 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD, 


found.  In  their  progress  eastward  and  northward 
they  had  covered  wide  areas  of  country,  dividing  and 
meeting  again  after  stated  hours  of  travel,  but  not  a 
sign  had  been  seen ;  neither  cairn  nor  staff  nor  any 
mark  of  human  presence. 

Jaspar  Hume  had  noticed  Jeff  Hyde's  face  when 
it  was  turned  to  the  eddying  drifts  of  the  north,  and 
he  understood  what  was  in  the  experienced  hunts- 
man's mind.  He  knew  that  severe  weather  was  before 
them,  and  that  the  greatest  difficulty  of  the  jour- 
ney was  to  be  encountered.  Yet,  somehow,  the  fear 
that  possessed  him  when  the  book  was  taken  from 
his  breaitt  had  left  him,  and  he  reaped  in  his  act  of 
self-sacrifice  a  larger  courage  and  rarer  strength  than 
that  which  had  heretofore  stayed  him  on  this  cheer- 
less journey. 

That  nignt  they  saw  Manitou  Mountain,  cold, 
colossal,  harshly  calm ;  and  jointly  with  that  sight 
there  arose  a  shrieking,  hieing,  fearful  north  wind.  It 
blew  upon  them  in  cruel  menace  of  conquest,  in 
piercing  inclemency.  It  struck  a  freezing  terror  to 
their  hearts,  and  grew  in  violent  attack  until,  as  if 
repenting  that  it  had  foregone  its  power  to  save,  the 
sun  suddenly  grew  red  and  angry  and  spread  out  a 
shield  of  blood  along  the  bastions  of  the  west.  The 
wind  shrunk  back  and  grew  less  murderous,  and  ere 
the  last  red  arrow  shot  up  behind  the  lonely  western 
wall  of  white,  the  three  knew  that  the  Tvorst  of  the 
storm  had  passed  and  that  death  had  drawn  back  for 
a  time.    What  Jaspar  Hume  thought  we  shall  gather 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     39 


m 


from  his  diary ;  for  ere  he  crawled  in  among  the 
dogs  and  stretched  himself  out  beside  Jacques,  he 
wrote  these  words  with  aching  fingers  : — 

'^January  10th:  Camp  39. — A  bitter  day.  We 
are  facing  three  fears  now  :  the  fate  of  those  we  left 
behind  ;  his  fate  ;  and  the  going  back.  We  are  thirty 
miles  from  Manitou  Mountain.  If  he  is  found,  I 
should  not  fear  at  all  the  return  journey  ;  success 
gives  hope.     AVe  trust  in  God," 

Another  day  passes  and  at  night,  after  a  hard 
march,  they  camp  five  miles  from  Manitou  Mountain. 
And  not  a  sign  !  But  Jaspar  Hume  knows  that  there  is 
a  faint  chance  of  Varre  Lepage  being  fo'md  at  this 
mountain.  His  iron  frame  has  borne  the  hardships 
of  this  journey  well  ;  his  valiant  heart  better.  But 
this  night  an  unaccountable  weakness  possesses  him. 
Mind  and  body  are  on  the  verge  of  helplessness  and 
faintness.  Jacques  seems  to  understand  that,  and 
when  he  is  unhitched  from  the  team  of  dogs,  now 
dwindled  to  seven,  he  goes  to  his  master  and  leaps 
ur  "  his  breast.  It  was  as  if  some  instinct  of  sym- 
piitf  of  prescience,  was  passing  between  the  man 
ana  '  '\  dog.  Jaspar  Hume  bent  his  head  down  to 
Jacques  for  an  instant  and  rubbed  his  side  kindly ; 
then  he  said,  with  a  tired  accent,  "  It's  all  right, 
dog  ;  it's  all  right !  " 

Jaspar  Hume  did  not  sleep  well  at  rirst  that  night, 
hut  at  length  oblivion  came.  He  waked  to  feel 
Jp/^ques  tugging  at  his  blankets.  It  wa^  noon.  Late 
Carscallen  and  Cloud-in-the-Sky  were  still  sleeping — 


40      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


inanimate  bundles  among  the  dogs.  In  an  hour  they 
were  on  their  way  again,  and  towards  sunset  they 
had  reached  the  foot  of  Manitou  Mountain.  Abruptly 
from  the  plain  rose  this  mighty  mound,  blue  and 
white  upon  a  black  base.  A  few  straggling  pines 
grew  near  its  foot,  defying  latitude,  as  the  mountain 
itself  defied  the  calculations  of  geographers  and  geo- 
logists. A  halt  was  called.  Late  Carscallen  and 
Cloud-in-the-Sky  looked  at  the  chief.  His  eyes  were 
scanning  the  mountain  closely.  Suddenly  he  paused. 
Five  hundred  feet  up  there  is  a  great  round  hole  in 
the  solid  rock,  and  from  this  hole  there  comes  a  feeble 
cloud  of  smoke !  Jaspar  Hume's  hand  points  where 
his  eyes  are  fixed.  The  other  two  see.  Cloud-in- 
the-Sky  gives  a  wild  whoop,  such  a  whoop  as  only 
an  Indian  can  give,  and  from  the  mountain  there 
comes,  a  moment  after,  a  faint  replica  of  the  sound. 
It  is  not  an  echo,  for  there  appears  at  the  mouth  of 
the  cave  an  Indian,  who  sees  them  and  makes  feeble 
signs  for  them  to  come.  In  a  few  moments  they  are 
at  the  cave.  As  Jaspar  Hume  enters,  Cloud-in-the- 
Sky  and  the  stalwart  but  emaciated  Indian  ,vho  had 
beckoned  to  them  speak  to  each  other  in  the  Chinook 
language,  the  jargon  common  to  all  Indians  of  the 
West.  i    ,         -  ,,.  .,   .,-.,,.: 

Jaspar  Hume  saw  a  form  reclining  on  a  great 
bundle  of  pine  branches,  and  he  knew  what  Rose 
JiCpage  had  prayed  for  had  come  to  pass.  By  the 
flickering  light  of  a  handful  of  fire  he  saw  Varre 
Lepage — rather  what  was  left  of  him — a  shadow  of 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     41 


energy,  a  heap  of  nerveless  bones.  HIo  eyes  were 
shut,  but  as  Jaspar  Hume,  with  a  quiver  of  memory 
and  sympathy  at  his  heart,  stood  for  an  instant  and 
looked  at  the  man  whom  he  had  cherished  as  a  friend 
and  found  an  enemy,  the  pale  lips  of  Varre  Lepage 
moved  and  a  weak  voice  said,  "  Who — is  there  ?  '* 

"  A  friend." 

"  A  friend  !     Come — near — me, — friend  !  '*      ' 

Jaspar  Hume  made  a  motion  to  Late  Carscallen,  who 
was  heating  some  liquor  at  the  fire,  and  he  came  near 
and  stooped  and  lifted  up  the  sick  man's  head,  and 
took  his  hand. 

"  You  have  come — to  save  me — to  save  me  !  "  said 
the  weak  voice  again. 

"Yes  ;  I  have  come  to  save  you."  This  voice  was 
strong  and  clear  and  true. 

"  I  seem — to  have — heard — your  voice  before — 

somewhere  before I  seem  to — have ''  But 

he  had  fainted. 

Jaspar  Hume  poured  a  little  liquor  down  the  sick 
man's  tliroat,  and  Late  Carscallen  chafed  the  delicate 
hand — delicate  in  health,  it  was  like  that  of  a  little 
child  now.  When  breath  came  again  Jaspar  Hume 
whispered  to  his  helper,  "  Take  Cloud-in-the-Sky 
and  get  Avood ;  bring  fresh  brandies ;  clear  one  of 
the  sleds,  and  we  will  start  back  with  him  in  the 
early  morning." 

Late  Carscallen,  looking  at  the  skeleton-like  figure, 
said,  "  He  will  never  get  there." 

**  Yes,"  said  Jaspar  Hume ;  "  he  will  get  there." 


42      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


11 


"But  he  is  dying." 

"  He  goes  with  me  to  Fort  Providence." 

"Ay,  to  Providence  he  goes,  but  not  with  you," 
said  Late  Car3callen,  sadly  but  doggedly. 

Anger  flashed  in  Jaspar  Hume's  eye,  but  he  said 
quietly,  "  I  shall  take  him  to  his  wife  ;  get  the  wood, 
Carscallen."  ' 

And  Jaspar  Hume  was  left  alone  with  the  starving 
Indian,  who  sat  beside  the  fire  eating  voraciously,  and 
the  sufferer,  who  now  mechanically  was  taking  a  little 
biscuit  sopped  in  brandy.  For  a  few  moments  thus, 
and  his  sunken  eyes  opened  and  he  looked  dazedly 
at  the  man  bending  above  him.  Suddenly  there 
came  into  them  a  look  of  terror.  "You — you — 
are  Jaspar  Hume,"  the  voice  said  in  an  awed 
whisper. 

"  Yes  ; "  and  the  hands  of  the  Sub -factor  chafed 
those  of  the  other. 

"  But  you  said  you  were  a — friend,  and  come  to 
save  me." 

"I  am  come  to  save  you."  .  ';    -i^    ' 

There  was  a  shiver  of  the  sufferer's  body.  Tnis 
discovery  would  either  make  him  stronger  or  kill  him 
altogether.  Jaspar  Hume  knew  this,  and  said,  "  Varre 
Lepage,  the  past  is  past  and  dead  to  me  ;  let  it  be  so 
to  you." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  How — did  you  know — about  me  ? " 

"  I  was  at  Fort  Providence  ;  there  came  letters 
from  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,  and  from  your 


It.;: 
It;  sj 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     43 

wife,  saying  that  you  were  making  this  journey,  and 
were  six  months  behind "  ;     v  :      ?   / 

"  My  wife,  my  wife !  Rose !  "        ' 

"  Yes,  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  her.  She  is  on 
her  way  to  Canada.     We  are  to  take  you  to  her." 

"  To  take  me — to  her !  "  He  shook  his  head  sadly, 
but  he  pressed  the  letter  that  Jaspar  Hume  had  just 
given  him  to  his  lips. 

"  To  take  you  to  her,  Varre  Lepage." 

"  No,  I  shall  never — see  her — again." 

"  I  tell  you,  you  shall.  You  can  live  if  you  will. 
You  owe  that  to  her — to  me — to  God  ! " 

"  To  her — t^.  you — to  God.  But  I  have  been  true 
— to  none.  To  win  her  I  wronged  you  doubh  — and 
wronged  her  too  ;  and  wronging — both  of  you,  I 
wronged  That  Other  One.  I  have  been  punished. 
I  shall  die  here." 

"You  shall  go  to  Fort  Providence.  Do  that  in 
payment  of  your  debt  to  me,  Varre  Lepage.  I 
demand  that."  * 

In  this  sinning  man  there  way  a  latent  spark  of 
honour,  a  sense  of  justice  that  might  have  been 
developed  to  great  causes,  to  noble  ends,  if  some 
strong  nature,  seeing  his  weaknesses,  had  not  con- 
doned them,  but  had  appealed  to  the  natuii*! 
chivalry  of  an  impressionable,  vain,  and  weak  cha- 
racter. He  struggled  to  meet  the  eyes  of  Jaspar 
Hume,  and  doing  so  he  gained  confidence  and  said, 
"  I  vAll  try  to  live.  I  will  do  you  justice — yet.  But, 
oh,  my  wife !  " 


44     THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

"  Your  first  duty  is  to  eat  and  drin!:.     We  start 
for  Fort  Providence  to-morrow  morning." 
•     The  sick  man  stretched  out  his  hand  :    "  Food ! 
Food !  "  ho  said. 

In  little  bits  food  and  drink  were  given  to  him, 
and  his  strength  sensibly  increased.  The  cave  was 
soon  aglaw  with  the  fire  that  was  kindled  by  Late 
Carscallen  and  Cloud-in- the-Sky.  There  was  little 
speaking,  for  the  sick  man  soon  fell  asleep.  Varro 
Lepage's  Indian  told  Cloud-in-the-Sky  the  tale  of 
their  march — how  the  other  Indian  and  the  dogs 
died ;  how  his  master  became  ill  as  they  were  start- 
ing towards  Fort  Providence  from  Manitou  Mountain 
in  the  summer  weather  ;  how  they  turned  back  and 
took  refuge  in  this  cave  ;  how  month  by  month  they 
had  lived  on  what  would  hardly  keep  a  rabbit  alive ; 
and  how  at  last  his  master  urged  him  to  press  on 
with  his  papers ;  but  he  would  not,  and  stayed  until 
this  day,  when  the  last  bit  of  food  had  been  eaten; 
and  they  were  foiind  ! 

'-.'■\'  '      '    ,. 


v; 


The  next  morning  Varre  Lepage  was  placed  upon 
a  sled  and  they  started  back,  Jacques  barking  joy- 
fully as  he  led  oiT,  with  Cloud-in-the-Sky  beside  him. 
There  was  light  in  the  faces  of  all,  though  the  light 
could  not  be  seen  by  reason  of  their  being  muffled  so. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD.     45. 


All  (lay  they  travelled,  scarcely  halting,  A^arre  Le- 
page's Indian  being  strong  again  and  marching  well. 
Often  the  corpse-like  bundle  on  the  sled  was  dis- 
turbed, and  l)iscuits  wet  in  brandy  and  bits  of  pre- 
served venison  were  given. 

That  night  Jas2)ar  Hume  said  to  Late  Carscallen, 
*'  I  am  going  to  start  at  the  first  light  of  the  morning 
to  get  to  Gaspe  Toujours  and  Jeff  Hyde  as  soon  as 
possible.  Follow  as  fast  as  you  can.  He  will  be  safe 
if  you  give  him  food  and  drink  often.  I  shall  get  to 
the  place  where  we  left  them  about  noon  ;  you  should 
reach  there  at  night  or  early  the  next  morning." 

"Hadn't  you   better  take    Jacques   with  you  ?  "■ 
said  Late  Carscallen. 

The  Sub-factor  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said, 
"  No,  he  is  needed  most  where  he  is." 

At  noon  the  next  day  Jaspar  Hume  looks  round 
upon  a  billowy  plain  of  sun  and  ice,  but  he  sees  no 
staff,  no  signal,  no  tent,  no  sign  of  human  life  :  of 
Gaspe  Toujours  or  of  Jeff  Hyde.  His  strong  heart 
quails.  Has  he  lost  his  way  ?  He  looks  at  the  sun. 
He  is  not  sure.  He  consults  his  compass,  but  it 
quivers  hesitatingly,  and  then  points  downwards ! 
For  awhile  wild  bewilderment  which  seizes  upon  the 
minds  of  the  strongest,  when  lost,  masters  him,  in 
spite  of  his  struggles  against  it.  He  moves  in  a  maze 
of  hdlf-blindness,  lalf-delirium.  He  is  lost  in  it,  is 
swayed  by  it.  He  begins  to  wander  about ;  and  there 
grow  upon  his  senses  strange  delights  and  reeling- 
agonies.     He  hears  church  bells,  he  catches  at  butter^ 


; 


46      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


\  I 

M  ii;- 


I- 


'       :  I: 


flies,  he  tumbles  in  new-mown  hay,  ho  wanders  in 
a  tropic  garden.  But  in  the  hay  a  wasp  stings  him, 
and  the  butterfly  changes  to  a  curling  black  snake 
that  strikes  at  him  and  glides  to  a  dark-flowing  river 
full  of  floating  ice,  and  up  from  the  river  a  white 
hand  is  thrust,  and  it  beckons  him — beckons  him  ! 
He  shuts  his  eyes  and  moves  towards  it,  but  a  voice 
stops  him,  and  it  says,  "Come  away!  come  away  !  " 
and  two  arms  fold  him  round,  and  as  he  goes  back 
from  the  shore  he  stumbles  and  falls,  and  .... 
What  is  this  ?  A  yielding  mass  at  his  feet !  A  mass 
that  stirs !  He  clutches  at  it,  he  tears  away  the  snow, 
he  calls  aloud — and  his  voice  has  a  faraway  un- 
natural sound — "Gaspe  Toujours!  Gaspe  Toujours!" 
Yes,  it  is  Gaspe  Toujours  !  And  beside  him  lies  Jeff 
Hyde,  and  alive  !  ay,  alive  !    Thank  God  ! 

Jaspar  Hume's  mind  is  itself  again.  It  had  but 
suffered  for  a  moment  what  comes  to  most  men  when 
they  recognise  first  that  they  are  being  shadowed  by 
the  awful  ban  of  "  Lost." 

Gaspe  Toujours  and  Jeff  Hyde  had  lain  down  in 
the  tent  the  night  of  the  great  wind  and  had  gone  to 
sleep  at  once.  The  staff  had  been  blown  down,  the 
tent  had  fallen  over  them,  the  drift  had  covered  them 
and  for  three  days  they  had  slept  beneath  the  snow ; 
never  waking. 

Jeff  Hyde's  sight  was  come  again  to  him,  "You've 
come  back  for  the  book,"  he  said ;  "  you  couldn't  go 
on  without  it.  You  ought  to  have  taken  it  yester- 
day "  ;  and  he  drew  it  from  his  bosom. 


*'  B8  MOVES  IN  A  UAZE  OF  UJiLE'BLlVDV^SB,  HALF-SEUBIVU,  * 


it    A 


■  rj^ 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     49 


"  No,  Jeff,  I've  not  conoe  l)ack  for  tliat  :  and  I  did 
not  leave  you  yesterday  :  it  is  three  days  and  more 
since  we  parted.  The  book  has  broiiglit  us  kick,  and 
the  best !  We  have  found  him ;  and  they'll  be  here 
to-night  with  him.  I  came  on  ahead  to  see  how  you 
fared." 

In  that  frost-bitten  world  Jeff  Hyde  uncovered  lils 
head  for  a  moment.  "  (laspe  Toujours  is  a  Papist," 
he  said  ;  "  but  he  read  me  some  of  that  book  the  day 
you  left,  and  one  thing  we  went  to  sleep  on  :  it  was 
that  about  *  Lightenin'  the  darkness,  and  defondin'  us 
from  all  the  perils  and  dangers  of  this  night.'  "  Here 
Gaspe  Toujours  made  the  sign  of  the  cross.  Jeff 
Hyde  continued  half  apologetically  fo  his  comrade, 
"It  comes  natural  to  Gaspe  Toujours — I  guess  it 
always  does  to  Papists.  But  I  never  had  any  trainin' 
that  way,  and  I  had  to  turn  the  thing  over  and  over, 
and  I  fell  asleep  on  it.  And  when  I  wake  up  three 
days  after,  here's  my  eyes  as  fresh  as  daisies,  and  you 
back,  Captain,  and  die  thing  done  that  we  come  to 
do!" 

Ho  put  the  book  into  the  hands  of  Jaspar  Ilnmo, 
and  Gaspe  Toujours  at  that  moment  said,  "  See ! " 
And  far  off,  against  the  eastern  horizon,  appeared  a 
group  of  moving  figures  ! 

•  That  niofht  the  broken  seo^ments  of  the  "White 
Guard  were  re-united,  and  Varre  Lepage  slept  by  the 
side  of  Jaspar  Hume. 


1  'S\ 


'•1 


ill 


1:1 


50     THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


VI. 


f 


I 
ii .  I. 


To  conquer  is  to  gain  courage  rnd  unusual  powers 
cf  endurance.  Napoleon  might  have  marched  back 
from  Moscow  vith  undecimated  legions  safely  enough, 
if  the  heart  of  those  le«:ions  had  not  been  crushed. 
The  AVhite  Guard,  with  their  faces  turned  homeward 
and  the  man  they  had  sought  for  in  their  care,  seemed 
to  have  acquired  new  strength.  Through  days  of 
dreadful  cold,  through  nights  of  appalling  fierceness, 
through  storm  upon  the  plains  that  made  for  them 
paralyzing  coverlets,  they  marched.  And  if  Varre 
Lepage  did  not  grow  stronger,  life  at  least  was  kept 
in  him,  and  he  had  once  more  the  desire  to  live. 

There  was  little  speech  among  them,  but  once  in 
a  while  Gaspe  Toujours  sang  snatches  of  the  songs  of 
tho  voyageurs  of  the  great  rivers ;  and  the  hearts  of 
all  were  strong.  Between  Jacques  and  his  master 
there  Avas  occasional  demonstration.  Jacques  seemed 
to  know  that  a  load  was  being  lifted  from  the  heurt 
of  Jaspar  Hume,  and  j'aspar  Hume,  on  the  twentieth 
day  homeward,  said  w^ith  his  hand  on  the  dog's  head, 
"  It  had  to  be  done,  Jacques  j  even  a  dog  could  see 
that!" 

And  so  it  was  "  all  right"  for  the  White  Guard. 
One  day  Wiien  the  sun  was  warmer  than  usual  over 
Fort  Providence,  and  just  sixty-five  days  since  that 
cheer  had  gone  up  from  apprehensive  hearts  for 
brave  men  going  out  into  the  Borren  Grounds, 
Sergeant  Gosse,   who  every  day  and  of  late  many 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.      51 


."<•. 


see 


for 
ids, 


times  a  day,  had  swept  the  north-east  with  a  field- 
glass,  rushed  into  the  Chief  Factor's  office,  and  with 
a  broken  voice  cried,  '•  The  White  Guard !  The 
White  Guard  ! "  And  pointed  towards  the  noi'th-east. 
And  then  he  leaned  his  arm  and  head  agaiust  the 
wall  and  sobbed.  And  the  old  Factor  rose  from  his 
chair  tremblingly,  and  said  "  Thank  God,"  and  went 
hurriedly  into  the  square.  But  he  did  not  go 
steadily — the  joyous  news  had  shaken  him,  sturdy 
old  pioneer  as  he  was.  As  he  passes  out  one  can 
see  that  a  fringe  of  white  has  grown  about  his 
temples  in  the  last  two  months.  The  people  of 
the  Fort  had  said,  they  had  never  seen  him  so 
irascible,  yet  so  gentle ;  so  uneasy,  yet  so  reserved ; 
so  stern  about  the  mouth,  yet  so  kind  about  the 
eyes  as  he  had  been  since  Jaspar  Hume  had 
gone  with  his  brave  companions  on  this  desperate 
errand. 

Already  the  handful  of  people  at  the  Fort  had 
gathered.  Indians  left  the  store  and  joined  the 
rest ;  the  Factor  and  Sergeant  Gosse  set  out  to  meet 
the  little  army  of  relief.  God  knows  what  was  in 
the  hearts  of  the  Chief  Factor  and  Jaspar  Hume 
when  they  shook  hands.  To  the  Factor's  "  In  the 
name  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company,  Mr.  Hume," 
there  came  '*  By  the  help  of  God,  sir,"  and  he  pointed 
to  the  sled  whereon  Varre  Lepage  lay.  A  feeble 
hand  was  clasped  in  the  burly  hand  of  the  Factor, 
and  then  they  fell  into  line  again,  Cloud-in-the-Sky 
running  ahead  of  the  dogs.     Snow  had  fallen  on 


I 


■ 


52      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


'  ii 


them,  and  as  tliey  entered  the  stockade,  men  and 
dogs  were  white  from  head  to  foot. 

The  White  Guard  had  come  back !  They  were 
met  with  cries  of  praise,  broken  by  an  occasional 
choking  sound,  from  men  like  Sergeant  Gosse.  Jaspar 
Hume  as  simply  acknowledged  his  welcome  as  he 
had  done  the  God-speed  two  months  and  more  ago. 
He  with  the  Factor  bore  the  sick  man  in,  and  laid 
him  on  his  own  bed.  Then  he  came  outside,  and 
when  they  cheered  him  again,  he  said,  "  We  have 
come  safely  through  and  I  am  thankful.  But  remem- 
ber that  my  comrades  in  this  march  deserve  your 
cheers  in  this  as  much  as  I. .  Without  them  I  could 
hav^  done  nothing  in  the  perils  that  lay  between 
here  and  the  Barren  Grounds." 

"In  our  infirmities  and  in  all  our  dangers  and 
necessities,"  added  Jeff  Hyde;  "the  luck  of  the 
world  was  in  the  book  !" 

In  another  half-hour  the  White  Guard  was  at  ease, 
and  four  of  them  were  gathered  about  the  great 
stove  in  the  store,  Cloud-in-the-Sky  smoking  placidly, 
and  full  of  guttural  emphasis  ;  Late  Carscallen  mov- 
ing his  animal- like  jaws  vvith  a  sense  of  satisfaction  ; 
Gaspe  Toujours  talking  in  Chinook  to  the  Indians, 
in  patois  to  the  French  clerk,  and  in  broken  English 
to  them  all ;  and  Jeff  Hvde  exclaiming  on  tho 
wonders  of  the  march,  the  finding  of  Varre  Lepage 
at  Manitou  Mountain,  and  of  himself  and  Gasp^ 
Toujours  buried  in  the  snow. 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD,      53 


VII. 


Ig3 


In  Jaspar  Hume's  lioiise  at  midnight  Varre  Lepage 
lay  asleep  with  his  wife's  letters — received  through 
the  Factor — clasped  to  his  breast.  The  firelight 
played  upon  a  face  prematurely  old — a  dark  disap- 
pointed face — a  doomed  face,  as  it  seemed  to  the 
Factor. 

"  You  knew  him,  then,"  the  Factor  said,  after  a 
long  silence. 

"  Yes  ;  I  knew  him  well,  years  ago,"  replied  Jaspar 
Hume. 

Just  then  the  sick  man  stirred  in  his  sleep,  and 
said  disjointedly,  "  I'll  make  it  all  right  to  you, 
Jaspar."  Then  came  a  pause  and  a  quicker  utterance, 
"  Kose  —  I  —  love  you  —  Forgive — forgive!"  The 
Factor  rose  and  turned  to  go,  and  Jaspar  Hume, 
with  a  despairing,  sorrowful  gesture,  went  over  to 
the  bed. 

Again  the  voice  said,  "  Ten  years — I  hive  repented 
ten  years — My  wife — Don't,  don't ! — I  dare  not 
speak — Jaspar  forgives  me,  oh,  Rose!" 

The  Factor  touched  Jaspar  Hume's  arm.  "  This 
is  delirium,"'  he  said.  **  He  has  fever.  You  and  I 
must  nurse  him,  Hume.  You  can  trust  me — you 
understand." 

"  Yes,  I  con  trust  you,"  was  the  reply.  "  But  I 
can  tell  you  nothing." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  know  anything.  If  you  can 
watch  till  two  o'clock  I  will  relieve  you.     I'll  send 


. 


54     THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD, 


ill 


the  medicine  chest  over.  You  know  how  to  treat 
him." 

The  Factor  passed  out  and  the  other  was  left  alone 
with  the  man  who  had  wronged  him.  The  feeling 
most  active  in  his  mind  was  pity,  and  as  he  prepared 
a  draught  from  his  own  stock  of  medicines,  he  thought 
the  past  and  the  present  all  over.  He  knew  that 
however  much  he  had  suffered,  this  man  had  suffered 
more.  And  in  this  silent  night  there  was  broken 
down  any  slight  barrier  that  may  have  stood  between 
Varre  Lepage  and  his  complete  compassion.  Having 
effaced  himself  from  the  calculation,  justice  became 
forgiveness. 

He  moistened  the  sick  man's  lips  and  bathed  his 
forehead,  and  roused  him  once  to  take  a  quieting 
powder.  Then  he  sat  down  and  wrote  to  Eose  Le- 
page. But  he  tore  the  letter  up  again  and  said  to  the 
dog,  "  No,  Jacques,  I  cannot ;  the  Factor  must  do  it. 
She  needn't  know  yet  that  it  was  I  with  the  White 
Guard  who  saved  him.  It  doesn't  make  any  burden 
of  gratitude  for  her,  if  my  name  is  kept  out  of  it. 
And  the  Factor  mustn't  mention  me,  Jacques — not 
yet.  And  when  he  is  well  we  will  go  to  London  with 
It,  Jacques,  and  we  needn't  meet  her ;  and  it  will  be 
all  right,  Jacques  :  all  right ! " 

And  the  dog  seemed  to  understand ;  for  he  went 
over  to  the  box  that  held  It;  and  looked  at  his 
master.  And  Jaspar  Hume  rose  and  broke  the  seal 
and  unlocked  the  box  and  opened  it ;  but  he  heard 
the  sick  man  moan  and  he  closed  it  again  and  went 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD,     55 

over  to  the  bed.     The  feeble  voice  said,  "I  must 
speak — I  cannot  die  so — not  so — Jaspar." 

And  Jaspar  Hume  murmured,  "  God  help  him." 
And  he  moistened  the  lips  once  again,  and  put  a  cold 
cloth  on  the  fevered  liead,  and  then  sat  down  by  the 
fire  again.  And  Varre  Lepage  slepL  As  if  some 
charm  had  been  in  that  "God  help  him,"  the  restless 
hands  grew  quiet,  the  breath  became  more  regular, 
and  the  tortured  mind  found  a  short  peace.  With 
the  old  debating  look  in  his  eyes,  Jaspar  Hume  sat 
until  the  Factor  relieved  him. 


VIII. 


February  and  March  and  April  were  past  and  May 
was  come.  Varre  Lepage  had  had  a  hard  struggle 
for  life,  but  he  had  survived.  For  weeks  every  night 
there  was  a  repetition  of  that  first  night  after  the 
return :  delirious  self-condemnation,  entreaty,  and 
love  of  his  wife,  and  Jaspar  Hume's  name  mentioned 
now  and  again  in  shuddering  remorse.  With  the 
help  of  the  Indian  who  had  shared  the  sick  man's 
sufferings  in  the  Barren  Grounds,  the  Factor  and 
Jaspar  Hume  nursed  him  back  to  life.  Between  the 
two  watchers,  no  word  had  passed  after  the  first 
night  regarding  the  substance  of  Varre  Lepage's 
delirium.  But  one  evening  the  Factor  was  watching 
alone,  and  the  repentant  man  from  his  feverish  sleep 


S6      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD, 

cried  out,  "Hush,  hush;  dont  let  them  know — I 
stole  them  both  from  him — and  the  baby  died  be- 
cause of  that ;  God  took  it — and  Hose  did  not  know ! 
She  did  not  know  ! " 

The  Factor  rose  and  walked  away.  The  dog  was 
watching  him.  He  said  to  Jacques,  "You  have  a 
good  master,  Jacques — too  good  and  great  for  the 
H.B.C." 


IX. 

It  is  the  10th  of  May.  In  an  arm-chair  made  of 
hickory  and  birch-bark  by  Cloud-in-the-Sky,  sits  Varre 
Lepage  reading  a  letter  from  his  wife.  She  is  at 
Winnipeg,  and  is  coming  west  as  far  as  Regina  to 
m6et  him  on  his  Avay  down.  He  looks  a  wreck  ;  but 
a  handsome  wreck  !  His  refined  features,  his  soft 
black  beard  and  blue  eyes,  his  graceful  hand  and 
gentle  manners,  one  would  scarcely  think  belonged  to 
an  evil-hearted  man.  He  sits  in  the  sunlight  at  the 
door,  wrapped  about  in  moose  and  beaver  skins. 
This  world  of  plain  and  wood  is  glad.  Not  so  Varre 
Lepage.  He  sat  and  thought  of  what  was  to  come. 
He  had  hoped  at  times  that  he  would  die,  but  twice 
Jaspar  Hume  had  said,  "  I  demand  your  life  :  you 
owe  it  to  your  wife — to  me — to  God! "  And  he  had 
pulled  his  lieart  up  to  this  demand  and  had  lived. 
l]ut  what  lay  before  him  ?  He  saw  a  stony  track,  and 
he  shuddered.     The  Bar  of  Justice  and  Restitution 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD,     57 

raised  its  cold  barriers  before  him ;  and  he  was  not 
strong ! 

.  As  he  sat  there  facing  his  future,  Jaspar  Hume 
came  to  him  and  said,  "  If  you  feel  up  to  it,  Lepage, 
we  will  start  for  Edmonton  and  Shovanne  on  Mon- 
day. I  think  it  will  be  quite  safe,  and  your  wife  is, 
anxious.  I  shall  accompany  you  as  far  as  Edmonton  ;, 
you  can  then  proceed  to  Shovanne  by  easy  stages, 
and  so  on  east  in  the  pleasant  weather.  Are  you 
ready  to  go  ?  " 

•'  Yes  !  I  am  ready." 


X. 

On  a  beautiful  j\Iay  evening  Yarre  Lepage,  Jaspar 
Hume  and  the  AVhite  Guard  are  w^elcomed  at  Fort 
Edmonton  by  the  officer  in  command  of  the  Mounted 
Police.  They  are  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  of  the  Fort 
for  a  couple  of  days,  before  they  pass  on.  Jaspar 
Hume  is  to  go  back  v. 'h  Cloud-in-the-Sky  and  Late 
Carscallen,  and  a  munber  of  Indian  carriers  ;  for  this 
is  a  journey  of  business  too.  Gaspe  Toujours  and 
Jeff  Hyde  are  to  press  on  with  Yarre  Lepage,  who  is 
now  much  stronger  and  better.  One  day  passes,  and 
on  the  following  morning  Jasp.nr  Hume  gives  instruc- 
tions to  Gaspe  Toujours  and  Jeff  Hyde,  and  makes 
preparations  for  his  going  back.  He  is  standing  in 
the  Barracks  Square,  when  a  horseman  rides  in  and 
inquires  of  a  sergeant  standing  near,  if  Yarre  Lepage 


58      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 


has  arrived  at  the  Fort.  A  few  words  bring  out  the 
fact  that  Rose  Lepage  is  nearing  the  Fort  from  the 
south,  being  determined  to  come  on  from  Shovanne  to 
meet  her  husband.  The  trooper  thinks  she  is  now 
about  eight  or  ten  miles  away ;  but  is  not  sure.  He 
had  been  sent  on  ahead  the  day  before,  but  his  horse 
having  met  with  a  slight  accident,  he  had  been 
delayed.  He  had  seen  the  party,  however,  a  long 
distance  back  in  the  early  morning.  He  must  now 
ride  tiwa;-  and  meet  Mrs.  Lepage,  he  saxl.  He  was 
furnished  with  a  fresh  horse  and  he  left,  bearing  a 
message  to  the  loyal  wife  from  Yarre  Lepage. 

Jaspar  Hume  decided  to  leave  Fort  Edmonton  at 
once,  and  to  tako  all  the  White  Guard  back  with 
him  ;  and  gave  orders  to  that  effect.  He  entered  the 
room  where  Varre  Lepage  sat  alone,  and  said,  "A^arre 
Lepage,  the  time  has  come  for  us  to  say  good-bye.  I 
am  starting  at  once  for  Fort  Providence." 

But  the  other  replied,  "You  will  wait  until  my 
wife  comes.    You  must."    There  was  pain  in  his  voice. 

<'I  must  not." 

Yarre  Lepage  braced  himself  for  a  heavy  task  and 
said,  "  Jaspar  Hume,  if  the  time  has  come  to  say 
good-bye,  it  has  also  come  when  we  should  speak 
together  for  once  openly  :  to  settle,  in  so  far  as  can 
be  done,  a  long  account.  Ycu  have  not  let  my  wife 
know  who  saved  me.  T^-  ..L  appears  from  her  letters. 
She  asks  the  name  of  my  rescuer.  I  have  not  yet 
told  her.  But  she  will  know  that  to-day,  when  I  tell 
her  all." 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.     S9 


"  When  you  tell  her  all  ?  " 

"  When  I  tell  her  all." 

"  But  you  shall  not  do  that." 

"  I  will.  It  will  be  the  beginning  of  the  confession 
which  I  shall  afterwards  make  to  the  world." 

"  By  Heaven  you  shall  not  do  it.  Coward  !  Would 
you  wreck  her  life  ?  "  Jaspar  Hume's  face  was  wrath- 
ful, and  remained  so  till  the  other  sank  back  in  the 
chair  with  his  forehead  in  his  hands  :  but  it  softened 
as  he  saw  this  remorse  and  shame.  lie  began  to  see 
that  Varre  Lepage  had  not  clearly  grasped  the  whole 
situation.  He  said  in  quieter,  but  still  firm  tones, 
"  No,  Lepage,  that  matter  is  between  us  two,  and  us 
alone.  She  must  never  know — the  world  therefore 
must  never  know.  You  did  an  unmanly  thing  ;  you 
are  suffering  a  manly  remorse.  Now  let  it  end  here 
— but  I  swear  it  shall,"  he  said  in  fierce  tones  as  the 
other  shook  his  head  negatively  :  "  I  would  have  let 
you  die  at  Manitou  Mountain,  if  I  had  thought  you 
would  dare  to  take  aw^ay  your  wife's  peace — your 
children's  respect." 

"  I  have  no  children  ;  our  baby  died." 

Jaspar  Hume  again  softened  ;  "  Can  you  not  see, 
Lepage  ?  The  thing  cannot  be  mended."  Just 
then  his  hand  touched  the  book  that  he  still  carried 
in  his  bosom,  and  as  if  his  mother  had  w^hispered  to 
him,  he  continued,  "  I  bury  it  all,  and  so  must  you. 
You  will  begin  the  world  again — old  friend — and  so 
shall  I.  Keep  your  wife's  love  and  respect.  Hence- 
forth you  will  deserve  it."  .  '  -    ■  :^ 


'■II 


;jH 


;M 


6o      THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD, 


Varre  Lepage  raised  moist  eyes  to  the  other  and 
said,  **  But  you  will  take  back  the  money  I  got  for 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Jaspar  Hume  replied, 
"  Yes,  upon  such  terms,  times  and  conditions  as  I 
shall  hereafter  fix.  And  you  have  no  child,  Lepage  ?" 
he  gently  added. 

"  We  have  no  child  ;  it  died  with  my  fame." 

Jaspar  Hume  looked  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  the 
man  who  had  wronged  him  :  "Remember,  Yarre, 
you  begin  the  world  again.  I  am  going  now.  By 
the  memory  of  old  days,  good-bye ;."  and  he  held  out 
his  hand.  Yarre  Lepage  took  it  and  rose  tremblirgly 
to  his  feet,  and  said,  "  You  are  a  good  man,  Jaspar 
Hume.     Good-bye!" 

The  Sub-factor  turned  at  the  door.  "If  it  will 
please  you,  tell  your  wife  that  I  saved  you.  Some 
c)ne  Will  tell  her ;  perhaps  I  would  rather — at  least 
it  would  be  more  natural,  if  you  did  it."  He  passed 
out  into  the  heat  of  sunshine  that  streamed  into  the 
room  and  fell  across  the  iigure  of  Yarre  Lepage,  who 
sat  and  said  dreamily,  "  And  begin  the  world  again." 

Before  Jaspar  Hume  mounted,  almost  immediately 
after,  to  join  the  White  Guard  now  ready  for  the 
journey  back,  Jacques  sprang  upon  him  and  pushed 
his  nose  against  his  master's  heart.  And  once  again, 
and  for  the  last  time  that  Ave  shall  hear  it,  Jaspar 
Hume  said,  "  It's  all  right,  Jacques." 

And  then  they  started  for  the  north  again.  As 
they  were  doing  so,  a  shadow  fell  across  the  sunlight 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.      6i 


i     ! 


that  streamed  upon  Varre  Lepage.  He  looked  up. 
There  was  a  startled  cry  of  joy,  an  answering  excla- 
mation of  love,  and  Rose  Lepage  was  locked  in  her 
husband's  arms.    • 

A  few  moments  after  and  the  sweet-faced  woman 
said,  "  Who  was  that  man  who  rode  away  to  the 
north  as  I  came  up,  Varre  ?  He  reminded  me  of 
some  one,  but  I  can't  think  who  it  is." 

"  That  was  the  leader  of  the  White  Guard,  the  man 
who  saved  me,  my  wife."  He  paused  a  moment  and 
then  solemnly  said,  "That  man  was  Jaspar  Hume!" 

The  wife  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  spring.  "Ho 
saved  you  !  He  saved  you  !  Jaspar  Hume  ! — oh, 
Varre!" 

"  He  saved  me,  Kose  !" 

Her  eyes  were  wet :  "  And  he  would  not  stay  and 
let  me  thank  him  !  Poor  fellow  :  poor  Jaspar — 
Hume  !   Has  he  then  been  up  here  these  ten  years  ?" 

Her  face  was  flushed,  and  pain  was  struggling  witli 
the  joy  she  felt  in  seeing  her  husband  again. 

**  Yes,  he  has  been  ujd  here  all  that  time." 

"He  has  not  succeeded  in  life,  Varre!"  and  her 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  days  when,  blind  and  ill, 
Jaspar  Hume  went  away  for  health's  sake,  and  she 
remem-bered  how  sorry  then  she  felt  for  him,  and 
how  grieved  she  was  that  when  he  came  back  strong 
and  well,  he  did  not  come  near  her  or  her  husband, 
and  offered  no  congratulations.  She  had  not  deli- 
berately wronged  him.  She  did  not  know  he  wished 
her  to  be  his   wife.     She  knew  he  cared  for  her  : 


62      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD. 

but  so  (lid  Varre  Lepage.  A  promise  had  been  given 
to  neither  when  Jaspar  Hume  went  away  ;  and  after 
that  she  grew  to  love  the  successful,  kind-mannered 
genius  who  became  her  husband.  Even  in  this  hap- 
piness of  hers,  sitting  once  again  at  her  husband's 
feet,  she  thought  with  a  tender  and  glowing  kindness 
of  the  man  who  had  cared  for  her  eleven  years  ago  ; 
and  who  had  but  now  saved  her  husband. 

"  He  has  not  succeeded  in  life/'  she  repeated  softly. 

Looking  down  at  her,  his  brow  burning  with  a 
white  heat,  Varre  Lepage  said,  "He  is  a  great  man, 
my  wife." 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  a  good  man,"  she  added. 

Perhaps  Varre  Lejiage  had  borrowed  some  strength 
from  Jaspar  Hume,  for  he  said  almost  sternly,  "  He 
is  a  great  man." 

His  wife  looked  up  half-startled  at  the  tone  and  said, 
"Yes,  dear  ;  he  is  a  good  man — and  a  great  man." 

The  sunlight  still  came  in  through  the  open  door. 
The  Saskatchewan  flowed  swiftly  between  its  verdant 
banks,  an  eagle  went  floating  away  to  the  Avest,  robins 
made  vocal  a  solitary  tree  a  few  yards  away,  troopers 
moved  back  and  forwards  across  the  square,  and  a 
hen  and  her  chickens  came  fluttering  to  the  threshold. 
The  wife  looked  at  the  yellow  brood  drawing  close  to 
their  mother,  and  her  eyes  grew  wistful.  She  thought 
of  their  one  baby  asleep  in  an  English  grave.  But 
thinking  of  the  words  of  the  captain  of  the  White 
Guard,  Varre  Lepage  said,  "  We  will  begin  the  world 
again,  my  wife." 


il 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD.      63 

She  smiled,  und  rose  to  kiss  liis  forehead  as  the 
hen  and  chickens  hastened  away  from  tlie  door,  and 
a  clear  bugle  call  sounded  in  the  square. 

"  Yas,  dear,"  she  said,  "  we  will  begin  the  world 
again." 


XL 

Eleven  years  have  gone  since  that  scene  was 
enacted  at  Edmonton,  and  the  curtain  rises  for  the 
last  act  of  that  drama  of  life  which  is  connected  with 
the  brief  history  of  the  White  Guard. 

A  great  gathering  is  dispersing  from  a  hall  in 
Piccadilly.  It  has  been  drawn  together  to  do  honour 
to  a  man  who  has  achieved  a  triumph  in  engineering 
science.  As  he  steps  from  the  platform  to  go  he  is 
greeted  by  a  fusilade  of  cheers.  He  bows  calmly  and 
kindly.  He  is  a  man  of  vigorous  yet  reserved  aspect ; 
he  has  a  rare  individuality.  He  receives  with  a 
quiet  cordiality  the  personal  congratulations  of  his 
friends.  He  remains  for  some  time  in  conversation 
witli  a  royal  Duke,  who  takes  his  arm  and  with  him 
passes  into  the  street.  The  Duke  is  a  member  of 
this  great  man's  club,  and  offers  him  a  seat  in  his 
brougham.  Amid  the  cheers  of  the  people  they  drive 
away  together.  Inside  the  club  there  are  fresh  con- 
gratulations, and  it  is  proposed  to  arrange  an 
impromptu  dinner,  at  which  the  Duke  will  preside. 
But  with   modesty  and   honest  thanks   the   great 


I!!; 


I 


64-     THE  MARCH  OF  THE   WHITE  GUARD. 

man  declines.  He  pleads  an  engagement.  He  had 
pleaded  this  engagement  the  day  before  to  a  well- 
known  society.  After  his  health  is  proposed  he 
makes  his  adieus,  and  leaving  the  club,  walks  away 
towards  a  West-end  square.  In  one  of  its  streets  he 
pauses  and  enters  a  building  called  "  Providence 
Chambers."  His  servant  hands  him  a  cablegram. 
He  passes  to  his  library,  and  standing  before  the  fire, 
opens  it.  It  reads  :  "  My  wife  and  I  send  congratu- 
lations to  the  great  man." 

Jaspar  Hume  stands  for  a  moment  looking  at  the 
fire,  and  then  says  simply,  "  I  wish  my  poor  old 
Jacques  were  here."  He  then  sits  down  and  writes 
this  letter : — 


"  My  dear  Friends, — Your  cablegram  has  made  me 
glad.  The  day  is  over.  My  last  idea  was  more 
successful  than  I  even  dared  to  hope  ;  and  the  world 
has  been  kind.  I  Avent  down  to  see  \  our  boy,  Jas- 
par,  at  Clifton  last  week.  It  was  the  18th,  his  birth- 
day, you  know,  ten  years  old,  and  a  clever,  strong- 
minded  little  fellow.  He  is  quite  contented.  As  he 
is  my  god-child  I  again  claimed  the  right  of  putting 
ii  thousand  dollars  to  his  credit  in  the  bank — I  have 
to  speak  of  dollars  to  you  people  living  in  Canada — 
■V  'ich  I  have  done  on  his  every  birthday.  When  he  is 
t  enty-one  he  will  have  twenty-one  thousand  dollars 
—quite  enough  for  a  start  in  life.  We  get  along  w^ell 
together,  and  I  think  he  will  develop  a  fine  faculty 
for  science.     In  the  summer,  r.s  I  said,  I  will  bring 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD,     65 

him  over  to  you.     There  is  nothing  more  to  say 
to-night  except  that  I  am  as  always, 

"Your  faithful  friend, 

Jaspar  Hume." 


A  moment  after  the  letter  was  finished  the  ser- 
vant entered  and  announced  "  Mr.  Late  Carscallen." 
With  a  smile  and  hearty  greeting  the  great  man  and 
this  member  of  the  White  Guard  meet.  It  was  to 
entertain  his  old  Arctic  comrade  that  Jasp-ir  Hume 
had  declined  to  be  entertained  by  society  or  club.  A 
little  Avhile  after,  seated  at  the  table,  the  ex-Sub- 
factor  said,  "  You  found  your  brother  well,  Cars- 
callen?" 

The  jaws  moved  slowly  as  of  old.  "  Ay,  that,  and 
a  grand  minister.  Captain." 

"  He  wanted  you  to  stay  in  Scotland,  I  suppose." 

*•'  Ay,  that,  but  there's  no  place  for  me  like  Fort 
Providence." 

"  Try  this  pheasant.  And  you  are  Sub-factor 
now,  Carscallen ! " 

**  There's  two  of  us  Sub-factors — Jeif  Hyde  and 
myself  Mr.  Field  is  old  and  can't  do  much  work, 
and  trade  is  heavy  now." 

"  Yes ;  I  hear  from  the  Factor  now  and  then. 
And  Gaspe  Toujours?" 

"  He  went  away  three  years  age,  but  he  said  he'd 
come  back.  He  never  did  though.  Jeff  Hyde 
believes  he  will.  He  says  to  me  a  hundred  times, 
*  Carscallen,  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  that  he'd 


•v*. 


66      THE  MARCH  OF  THE  WHITE  GUARD, 

come  back  from  Saint  Gabrielle ;  and  that's  next  to 
the  Book  with  a  Papist.     If  he's  alive  he'll  come.'  " 

"  Perhaps  he  will,  Carscallen.  And  Cloud-in-the- 
Sky?" 

"  He's  still  there,  and  comes  in  and  smokes  with 
Jeff  Hyde  and  me,  as  he  used  to  do  with  you,  sir  ; 
but  he  doesn't  obey  our  orders  as  he  did  those  of  the 
Captain  of  the  White  Guard.  He  said  to  me  when  I 
left,  *  You  see  Strong-back,  tell  him  Cloud-in-the-Sky 
good  Indian — he  never  forget.     How ! '  " 

Jaspar  Hume  raised  his  glass  with  smiling  and 
thoughtful  eyes  :  "  To  Cloud-in-the-Sky  and  all  who 
never  forget !  "  he  said. 


\ 


\   ■  I   ■■■,* -'•' 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MUEDEEER. 


By  LUKE  SHARP. 

EEING  the  two  men  toG^ether  and  knowinsf 
that  one  of  them  was  a  murderer,  there 
was  one  chance  hi  a  thousand  that  tlie 
visitor  woukl  pick  out  the  right  man  as 
the  criminah 

The  white  man  sat  on  an  easy  canvas 
camp  chair.  He  was  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  stern, 
forbidding  look  on  his  face  that  might  have  been 
caused  by  remorse,  but  which,  more  prol)ably,  was 
caused  by  dyspepsia.  Thf  i-e  were  certain  inflexible 
lines  about  his  mouth  which  showed  him  to  be  a 
man  of  great  dc  ^rmination,  and  his  firm-set  lips 
were  lips  that  apj^;  ired  never  to  smile.  His  sharp 
eyes  had  a  clear  and  steady  look  in  them  that  went 
through  a  man,  and  few  of  those  around  him  cared  to 
meet  those  eyes  when  there  was  a  spark  of  anger  in 
them.  He  was  such  an  unerring  judge  of  character 
that  he  had  come  to  believe  he  could  not  make  a 
mistake,  which  is  a  dan.Gferous  state  of  thinkinq'  for  a 


68        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER. 


I 


man  in  his  position,  because  a  mistake  made  by  him 
might  mean  death  to  somebody.  Nevertheless  he 
trusted  people  that  no  one  else  would  think  of  trust- 
ing, and  his  trust  was  rarely  taken  advantage  of. 
This  man  was  J.  S.  Flint,  the  head  of  Tall  Mountain 
Penitentiary. 

The  black  man  who  stood  beside  him,  and  who 
was  receiving  some  instructions  from  him,  had  the 
simple,  trustful,  childlike  face  which  is  so  often  found 
in  the  negro  race.  He  seemed  to  have  difficulty  in 
keeping  his  broad  mouth  from  relaxing  into  a  smile ; 
and  only  the  fact  that  he  was  talking  with  the 
Master  of  the  Penitentiary  kept  down  his  exuberant 
good-nature.  No  convict  would  take  the  liberty  to 
smile  while  Jackson  Flint  talked  to  him,  but  this 
negro  was  a  privileged  character  even  if  he  wore  the 
striped  suit  of  an  inmate  of  the  Penitentiary.  He 
was  Sunshine  Johnson,  in  for  life,  a  murderer,  yet  on 
his  arm  rested  Jackson  Flint's  little  curly-headed 
daughter,  aged  six,  and  her  arms  Avere  round  the 
negro's  black  neck  and  her  fair  cheek  was  pressed 
close  to  his  dusky  face.  The  murderer  was  one  of 
the  convicts  that  Jackson  Flint  trusted.  He  had 
certainly  an  easy  time  of  it ;  he  waited  on  the  table, 
took  care  of  the  children,  and  did  any  odd  job  about 
the  house.  The  negro  was  cnJled  "  Sunshine"  by 
every  o\:.d  around  the  camp.  Doubtless  he  had  not 
been  christened  that  name,  but  ho  had  been  called 
by  it  before  he  entered  the  Penitentiary,  and  by 
that  name  he  was  known  on  the  books  of  the  institu- 


±.u 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER.        69 

tion.  If  a  visitor,  attracted  by  his  name,  or  his 
beaming  countenance  so  full  of  good-nature  and  love 
of  all  humanity,  asked  the  Superintendent  who  he 
was,  Flint's  brows  would  knit  together  in  a  frown  as 
he  answered,  shortly,  "A  lifer;"  if  the  visitor  still 


"a  mxjrderee. 


pressed  for  information  as  to  his  crime,  the  frown 
grew  deeper  and  the  answer  gruffer — "  A  murderer." 
Most  people  gave  a  gasp  at  this  bit  of  information  as 
they  saw  the  negro  playing  with  the  pretty  child  of 
the  Superintendent ;  but  Jackson  Flint  was  not  a 
man  any  one  would  care  to  ask  personal  questions  of, 


70        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER. 


and  if  the  astonishing  state  of  things  caused  a  look 
of  surprise  to  come  over  the  visitor's  face,  the  look 
was  seldom  translated  into  speech.  Sometimes  the 
inquisitive  visitor  sought  information  from  Sunshine 
himself.  When  asked  about  his  crime  Sunshine 
always  looked  embarrassed  and  generally  cast  an 
appealing  glance  at  his  questioner.  He  stood  on  one 
bare  foot  and  slowly  rubbed  the  ankle  of  it  with  the 
toe  of  his  other  foot,  while  a  look  of  perplexity  came 
over  his  countenance. 

"  Foil  de  Lohd,  boss,  I  dunno  much  about  it,  dat's 
de  truf.  I  'spects  I  killed  de  man.  He's  daed  any- 
how and  somebody  done  it,  and  dey  said  it  was  me ; 
yes,  they  proved  dat  at  de  Cohts,  You  see  I  was 
drunk  at  the  time,  and  I  dunno  anything  at  all 
about  it.  'Spects  dat's  de  reason  dey  didn't  hang 
me  at  the  time.  I'se  very  sorry  I  done  it  if  I  did  do 
it."  And  then  Sunshine  would  make  an  excuse  to 
run  away  and  play  with  his  little  charge. 

The  Penitentiary  was  little  more  than  a  camp 
composed  of  rough  wooden  buildings,  and  was  situ- 
ated on  a  spur  of  the  moantain  overlooking  the 
great  deep  valley,  from  the  bottom  of  which  the 
turbulent  little  river  sent  up  an  unceasing  roar.  All 
around  were  the  high  peaks  of  the  mountain  range, 
closing  the  place  in  apparently  without  a  break, 
although  there  Avas  an  unseen  narrow  rocky  gorge 
through  which  the  river  escaped,  and  along  whose 
banks  the  single  line  of  railway  track  ran.  The 
mountains  all  around  were  densely  wooded,  and  not 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER.         71 

a  building  was  in  sight  anywhere  except  a  large 
hotel  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley,  which  was  a  sort  of 
summer  resort,  with  broad  verandahs.  The  eternal 
silence  of  its  location  was  broken  only  by  the  brawl- 
ing river  that  ran  beside  it,  and  by  the  occasional 


'ON  HIS  AEM  BESTED  JACKSON  FLINT' 3  LITTLE  CUELY-HEADED 


DAUGHTER. 


58 

le 

)t 


trains  which  passed  close  to  the  hotel,  as  part  of  the 
big  house  was  a  station  on  the  line.  Passengers  on  the 
railway  coming  to  this  hotel,  when  they  first  caught 
sight  of  it,  away  down  in  the  valley  below  them, 
generally  made  a  motion  to  get  their  small  bits  of 
baggage  gathered  together  preparatory  to    leaving, 


72        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER. 

but  the  conductor  used  to  say  to  them  good- 
naturedly, 

"  We  are  not  quite  there  yet ;  I  wouldn't  make  a 
move  for  a  minute  or  two  if  I  were  you  ;  just  watch 
that  hotel." 

Then,  looking  out  of  the  car  window  into  this 
incomparably  grand  valley,  the  passenger  found  him- 
self taken  round  and  round  the  circumference  of  the 
great  gulf  Now  the  hotel  was  directly  below  him, 
again  he  was  looking  at  it  from  across  the  valley  ; 
round  and  round  the  train  went,  getting  gradually 
lower  and  lower,  and  it  was  nearly  an  hour  after  the 
passengers'  first  sight  of  the  hotel  that  the  train 
drew  up  under  its  very  verandahs. 

The  convict  settlement  on  the  spur  of  the  moun- 
tain was  invisible  from  the  railway  track,  but  the 
convicts  were  there  because  the  railway  was  there. 
They  were  hired  out  to  the  railway  company  by  the 
State  Government,  and  as  the  train  dashed  by,  some- 
times the  passengers  were  shocked  to  see,  standing 
close  in  by  the  cliffs  beside  the  track,  twenty  or 
thirty  black  men  in  convict  garments,  some  with 
ball  and  chain  attached  to  their  ankles.  And  then, 
as  the  train  flashed  on,  white  men  with  rifles  on 
their  shoulders  were  seen  guarding  the  workers  on 
the  railway.  Nevertheless,  if  a  man  had  the  choice 
of  his  prison  this  particular  convict  camp  would  be 
likely  to  be  the  one  chosen  if  he  knew  about  it.  It 
had  a  glorious  situation,  the  air  was  pure  and  clear, 
so  much  so  that  the  locality  was  one  of  the  noted 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER,        7^ 


hoalth  resorts  of  America.  A  visitor  was  generally 
astonished  when  he  examined  the  camp  to  find  what 
little  difficulty  a  convict  would  have  in  escaping  from 
it.  Here  and  there  were  tall  board  erections  on 
which  a  man  was  stationed  with  a  rifle  or  a  shot 
gun.  There  was  no  wall  around  the  camp,  its  only 
protection  being  a  small  picket  fence,  easily  leaped 
over.  But  Nature  guarded  the  prisoners.  On 
almost  every  side  the  descent  was  steep,  and  even 
precipitous,  but  a  convict  would  run  no  danger  for 
life  or  limb  in  making  the  descent.  But  although  a 
convict  might  easily  have  leaped  the  slender  barrier, 
and  might  have  dodged  the  shots  from  the  men  on 
the  wooden  towers,  his  escape  was  next  thing  to 
hopeless  :  he  had  to  climb  over  the  mountain  to  get 
away,  and  a  telegraph  station  in  the  convict  settle- 
ment quickly  apprised  all  civilisation  outside  this 
wilderness  that  such  and  such  a  man  had  escaped. 
The  usual  result  of  an  attempt  to  escape  was  that  a 
week  or  ten  days  after  the  leap  over  the  barrier  a 
gaunt,  starved  man  came  out  of  the  wilderness  and 
gave  himself  up  at  the  first  place  where  he  could 
get  something  to  eat.  Often  he  failed  in  scaling  the 
mountain,  and  returned  after  a  few  days  to  the  camp 
itself.  The  very  frailty  of  the  fence  around  the 
camp  showed  the  utter  hopelessness  of  attempting  to 
escape. 

On  the  particular  day  in  summer  to  which  this 
account  relates  there  had  been  a  furious  storm  of 
rain  in  the  mountains.    The  clouds  seemed  to  have 


f4        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER. 


become  entangled  among  the  peaks,  and  they  hung 
over  the  valley,  unable,  like  the  prisoners,  to  escape, 
and  poured  their  floods  into  it  until  the  little  river 
had  become  a  wild  and  raving  torrent,  gleaming  here 
and  there  in  v/hite  among  the  dark  trees.  Towards 
night  the  clouds  succeeded  in  breaking  away  and 
floated  over  to  the  west,  but  the  mutter  of  distant 
thunder  showed  that  the  storm  was  not  yet  over, 
while  the  heat  seemed  more  oppressive  than  ever 
even  after  the  terrible  day's  rain.  When  darkness 
set  in  the  watery  silver  sickle  of  the  moon  hung  over 
the  valley  and  filled  it  with  a  weird,  dim,  tremulous 
light.  The  roar  of  the  torrent,  increased  by  the 
stillness  all  around,  came  up  from  the  bottom  of  the 
valley  on  the  night  air. 

The  Master  of  the  Penitentiary  sat  in  a  rocking- 
chair  on  the  verandah  of  his  wooden  house,  smoking 
his  corncob  pipe.  What  little  coolness  there  was,  was 
outside  and  not  inside  the  house.  Suddenly  a  burst 
of  childish  laughter  broke  on  his  ear,  and  looking  to 
the  left  he  saw  his  little  girl  lashing  Sunshire  John- 
son as  if  he  were  a  horse,  while  that  good-natured 
individual  trotted  up  and  down  with  the  child  on  his 
shoulders. 

"  Sunshine,"  cried  the  Master,  "  what  are  you  doing 
with  Dorothy  out  so  late  as  this  ?  " 

The  negro  came  to  an  instant  stojj  at  the  sound  of 
the  Master's  voice,  and  the  child  even  hushed  its 
laughter.  Little  Dorothy  was  much  more  afraid  of 
her  stern  father  than  of  the  good-natured  murderer. 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER.        75 


"  Well,  you  see,  massa,  it's  like  this,"  said  the 
negro,  deferentially.  "  Little  Dot  had  to  be  in  de 
house  all  de  day  on  account  of  de  rain,  sir,  and  it's  so 
warm  inside  dat  her  mother  she  thought  we  cud  play 
a  little  before  she  goes  to  bed,  and  den  little  Dot, 
sir,  she  thought  she'd  like  to  axe  you,  sir,  if  she 
might  stay  up  and  see  de  midnight  express." 

"  The  midnight  express,  nonsense !  "  cried  Flint. 
"Dorothy,  you  don't  want  to  stay  up  so  late  as  that  ?  " 

The  little  girl  made  no  answer,  but  clung  tighter 
with  alarm  around  the  negro's  neck  and  whispered 
into  his  ear. 

"  She'd  like  very  much  to  stay  up,  sah  ;  she  hasn't 
seen  it  for  a  long  time.  I  don't  think  it  would  do 
her  any  hawm,  sah." 

"  Oh,  she's  whispered  that  to  you,  has  she  ? '' 

The  negro  laughed  a  little  and  then  checked  him- 
self. "  Well,  massa,  I  don't  think  it  would  do  her 
any  hawm,  sah  ;  you  see  it's  so  warm  dat  de  little 
gall  she  couldn't  sleep  at  night,  anj^-way,  and  perhaps 
after  she  sees  de  train  den  she  goes  to  sleep,  sah." 

*'  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Flint,  "  if  her  mother  said 
it's  all  right,  it  is  all  right," 

And  then  he  took  to  smoking  again,  and  perhaps 
wondered  why  it  was  his  little  girl  preferred  to  whis- 
per her  request  in  the  negro's  ear  rather  than  speak  it 
out  to  him.  }jut  a  man  who  has  charge  of  a  hundred 
desperate  convicts  is  apt  to  lose  that  softness  of  de- 
meanour which  commends  itself  to  children.  The 
midnight  express,  he  Imew,  was  a  great  sight  to  see 


76        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER, 

oTi  a  dark  night.  The  train  appeared  with  its  long 
row  of  liglits  from  out  a  tunnel,  and  passing  by  the 
convict  settlement,  disappeared  anxong  the  trees  and 
through  another  tunnel.  It  came  in  sight  again  on 
the  other  side  of  the  valley,  its  long  line  of  lights 
appearing  to  crawl  slowly  around  the  mountain,  while 
the  roar  of  the  train  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the 
torrent  below.  Thus  it  appeared  and  disappeared  at 
different  intervals  and  at  different  levels,  sometimes 
goiijL^  in  one  direction  and  sometimes  in  another, 
but  always  getting  farther  and  farther  down,  like  an 
enchanted  train  that  had  become  entangled  in  the 
mountain  slopes.  It  was  alternately  a  row  of  lights 
and  a  roar,  then  darkness  and  silence,  until  it  stopped 
at  the  station  at  the  bottom  of  the  valley  and  with  a 
final  shriek  of  the  whistle,  that  echoed  long  after  the 
train  was  gone,  disappeared  through  the  notch  into 
the  more  open  country  beyond  on  its  way  to  the 
Atlantic  seaboard,  which  it  would  reach  the  next 
morning. 

It  was  nearly  the  time  for  the  train  when  Jackson 
Flint  was  startled  by  a  cry  from  his  child.  What  he 
saw  the  next  moment  simj^ly  paralyzed  him  for  the 
time.  Sunshine  Johnson  had  picked  up  a  lantern 
which  stood  on  the  platform  in  front  of  his  quarters, 
and  shouting  to  Dorothy,  "  Run  in  de  house,  honey, 
run  in  de  house,"  leaped  the  fence  and  made  off  into 
the  woods.  The  little  girl  clung  to  the  palings  of 
the  fence  and  cried  for  her  comrade.  The  clear  voice 
of  Jackson  Flint  startled  every  one  in  the  camp. 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER.         77 


"  Come  back,  you  black  scoundrel ;  where  are  you 
going  ? " 

A  wave  of  the  lantern  was  the  only  reply. 

Then  Flint  quickly  put  his  hand  to  his  hip  and 
drew  his  seven-shooter.  The  sharp  crack  of  the 
revolver  clove  the  midnight  air. 

"  Run  in  de  house,  honey,  run  in  de  house,"  re- 
peated the  negro  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  And  then 
the  master  noticed  that  his  little  crying,  curly-headed 
girl  stood  in  a  line  between  him  and  the  escaping 
convict. 

As  a  general  thing  Flint  was  an  unerring  shot,  but 
now  his  hand  trembled  as  he  fired  over  his  little  girl's 
head  six  times,  and  then  threw  the  empty  revolver 
on  the  ground.  Every  time  he  fired  the  rapidly 
disappearing  negro  swung  the  lantern  over  his  head. 

Flint  shouted  to  the  sleeping  guards  on  the  towers. 
"  Why  don't  you  fire  ?  Fire  at  him  with  the  shot- 
gun." Flint  clinched  his  teeth  and  awaited  the 
result.  His  command  had  been  practically  a  sentence 
of  death,  and  he  knew  it.  The  rifle  sends  one  pellet 
of  death,  the  shot-gun  sends  a  dozen  leaden  messen- 
gers, each  shrieking  for  a  life. 

Three  men  on  the  towers  fired  almost  simulta- 
neously from  the  shot-guns,  whose  scattering  fire 
raked  and  tore  through  the  bushes.  Again  the  negro 
swung  tl^a  lantern  over  his  head,  but  this  time  there 
was  a  shriek  of  pain  from  him,  although  he  never 
stopped  in  his  headlong  career,  and  the  next  instant 
w^s  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  ■ 


L^'J 


I 

m 


,ui 


n 


78        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON  MURDERER. 

All  the  convicts  had  long  ago  been  locked  up  in 
their  quarters,  and  most  of  the  officials  had  turned  in, 
but  now  pale-faced  men  came  hurrying  up  to  the 
master.  The  Assistant-Superintendent  hurried  for- 
ward, partially  dressed,  and  suid  to  his  chief — 

"  Anything  wrong,  sir  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  Any  one  escaped  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"AVho  is  it,  sir?" 

"  Johnson." 

*'  Not  Sunshine  ?  "  said  the  Assistant,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

Flint  turned  on  him  savagely.  "  I  said  Johnson  ; 
what  other  Johnson  is  there  here  ?"  and  he  glared 
with  clenched  fists  at  his  subordinate. 

The  other  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  then  he 
said:  "Shall  I  turn  out  the  guard  and  search  for  him, 
sir  ?  " 

"  No,  go  to  bed." 

Little  Dorothy,  silent  and  frightened  at  the  firing, 
clung  gasping  to  the  paling.  Her  mother  came  out 
and  ran  towards  her,  bending  over  her  and  trying 
to  calm  her  fright,  satisfying  herself  that  the  child 
was  not  hurt.  With  the  little  girl  in  her  arms  she 
approached  her  husband. 

"Who  was  it  ?  "  she  said  in  tremulous  tones. 

"Take  that  child  in,"  thundered  the  Master  of  the 
Penitentiary.  "What  is  she  doing  out  at  this  hour  ? 
And  cfet  inside  vourself." 


•'fieed  oveb  ^I3  uttli:  ciel's  uv.\d  six  times." 


H' 


I 


SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDEREP.        Si 


Mrs.  Flint  turned  without  a  word,  for  she  knew  her 
husband  in  this  mood  had  better  be  left  alone.  He 
strode  up  and  down  the  platform,  of  the  verandidi 
muttering  to  himself.  "  He  is  sure  to  be  caught  and 
then — "  Flint  grouiid  his  teeth  :  and  there  T^ras  no 
question  but  it  would  go  hard  with  the  trusted  con- 
vict when  he  was  caught. 

The  bitterness  of  it  all  was  that  the  whole  camp 
— convicts  and  guards — knew  how  he  had  trusted 
Sunshine  Johnson,  and  then  he  had  fired  at  him,  and 
missed  him. 

After  an  hour's  walking  back  and  forth  Flint  s!it 
down  again  in  his  chair  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  thinking  over  the  startling  events  of  the  night. 
Suddenly  a  very  soft  and  low  voice  made  him  spring 
from  the  chair  to  his  feet. 

"  Massa  Flint,"  said  the  voice.  Sunshine  with  the 
lantern  in  his  hand  stood  before  him  in  a  very  de- 
jected and  crestfallen  manner,  his  clothes  torn  by  the 
bushes  and  brambles  through  which  he  had  run. 

"  You  scoundrel  I  "  cried  Flint,  "  what  did  you  do 
that  for?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  massa,"  said  the  negro  apologeti- 
cally, "  you  didn't  hear  it,  did  you,  sah  ? " 

"  Hear  Avhat  ?  " 

"  Hear  de  land  slide.  I  heard  it  rattle  down  on 
dc  track,  and  I  knew  I  had  to  jump  if  I  was  to  save 
that  exjircss — I  saved  it  though.  I  'speck  de  rain 
loosened  de  bank  in  de  new  cut,  dei's  a  regular 
mountain  ef  gravel  down  on  de  track,  sah." 

r 


'  n-'s 


% 


ill 


!"■"  ,  Jfl 


82        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON  MURDERER. 


"TIEN  YOU   SAVED  TUB  EXTEESS." 


0- 


The  htirJ  eyos  of  the  master  filled  witli  tears,  and 
he  placed  hoth  hands  on  the  negro's  shoulders,  who, 
like  a  culprit,  gazed  on  the  ground.  Flint  struggled 
with  his  agitation  for  a  moment,  hut  seemed  unable 
to  say  just  what  he  wanted  to  say.  Finally  he  spoke 
cominonplacoly  enough.  "  Then  you  saved  the  ex- 
press, did  you,  Svmshine  ? ''  The  negro  looked  up. 
The  master  Iiad  alv/aj's  culled  him  Johnson,    "  Yt  h^ 


m' 
im 


SUNSHINE  JOHIVSON,  MURDERER.         83 


10, 
led 

)le 

X- 


massa,  and  the  kenductor  he's  a-comin'.  We  need  a 
shovelliii.2f  gang  out  dar  at  onct." 

"All  right,  Sunshhie,"  said  Flint.  "You  go  and 
tell  the  Sub.  to  come  here  at  once,  and  tell  him  to 
rout  out  a  gang  to  clear  away  the  dirt.  Say,  what's 
the  matter  with  your  arm  ?  " 

Sunshine's  left  arm  liung  limp  by  his  side,  and 
now  that  the  lantern  flashed  upon  it  Flint  saw  blood 
trickling  down  his  hand.  Sunshine  looked  sheepish 
and  guilty,  and  scratched  his  ankle  with  his  bare 
toe. 

"  "Well,  you  ;jee,  sah,  I  got  hit  a  little  on  dat  arm 
when  they  fired  de  shot-guns.  Don't  expect  dey 
fired  at  me,  you  see,  sah  ;  guess  dey  wouldn't  ah  hit 
me  if  dey  had,  dey  sort  o'  fired  promiscoous  like," 
he  added,  as  if  it  were  necessary  to  make  an  excuse 
for  the  men  who  had  shot  him.  "  Can't  expect  very 
good  shooting,  you  know,  for  thirteen  dollars  a 
month,  kin  you  ?  " 

"  Go  into  the  house,"  said  Flint ;  "  I  will  rout  out 
the  gang  myself,  and  I'll  send  the  doctor  to  you  at 
once." 

At  this  moment  the  conductor  with  a  lantern 
hanging  from  his  elbow,  and  a  breaksman,  clambered 
^ip  from  the  track  into  the  convict  camp.  The  con- 
ductor was  a  jovial  fellow  who  knew  Flint. 

"Hullo,"  he  said,  "what's  this  you've  been  doing 
to  us  ?  Been  trying  to  smash  up  the  night  express  ? 
Say,  the  whole  side  of  a  mountain  seems  to  liave  come 
down  over  the  track," 


^1! 


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4 


84        SUNSHINE  JOHNSON,  MURDERER. 


II 


I- 


"  Well,"  said  Flint,  gruffly,  "you  may  be  m.jhty 
glad  you  didn't  get  your  train  smashed  up  in  it. 
You  would  have  if  it  hadn't  been  for  one  of  my 


niggers. 


>> 


*'  Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  the  other ;  who  didn't 
know,  however,  the  risk  the  negro  had  run  in  order 
to  save  the  train.  *'  But,  say,  how  soon  can  we  have 
this  cleared  away  ?  We've  got  the  Governor  of 
North  Carolina  on  board,  and  he's  as  mad  as  the 
mischief  at  the  delay.  If  we  had  the  Governor  of 
South  Carolina  too  it  wnvlJn't  be  so  '  '>  because 
they  could  ask  each  (  ^<  ^  iho  cel/*>  ait  1  ^aestiori, 
but  you  see  he's  trave  .msc  -u  ue  ir  li>  jiiivM'  car." 

Flint  was  a  seriouiL  :ii  i  i.  ind  di«i  p.-  .m  .erstand 
the  bibulous  joke  connect  j1  with  t .  •:  dl  .les  of  the 
Governors  of  North  '  ">d  South  Caroi'ia,  but  he 
pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  mention  of  thac  official. 

"  Oh,  he's  on  board,  is  he  ?  Well,  I'm  glad  of  it. 
I  want  him  to  pardon  a  lifer." 

"  Well,"  said  the  conductor,  scratching  his  head, 
"  I  wouldn't  ask  him  just  now  if  I  were  you,  because 
he's  not  in  the  best  of  humour." 

"  I  don't  think  he'll  ever  be  in  better  humour  to 
do  what  I  want  Inm  to  than  now,  because  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  my  lifer,  his  private  car  might  \m  lyiiipf  down 
at  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  with  him  auiaahud  \\[\ 
in  it." 

"  Oh,  that's  how  the  matter  stands,"  said  tlio  coti* 
ductor  ;  "well,  I  guess  the  Govertiuf  'ill  do  It." 

And  the  Governor  did  it. 


a, 


to 

n't 

n 


THE  WEONG  PEESCEIPTION. 

By  LANOE  FALCONER. 

TOLD  you  so,"  said  Miss  Harrington. 
Her  sister,  Mrs.  Marsham,  v/rithed  in- 
wardly, but  contradiction  was  impossible, 
so  she  held  her  peace. 

**  I   told  you  so  one  day  I  called  on 
you,  about  two  weeks   ago.     You  were 
making  a  cake  in  the  kitchen.     Do  you  remember?" 
-  I  think  I  do." 

"  And  Molly  and  Charles  Hartley  were  on  the  lawn 
outside  playing  at  tennis." 

"But  Annie  and  Tom  were  playing  too." 
"  I  did  not  say  they  were  not.  That  very  day  I 
warned  you  that  you  were  allowing  Molly  to  see  a 
great  deal  too  much  of  Charles  Hartley,  unless  you 
wanted  her  to  marry  a  man  who  has  not  three  hun- 
dred a  year." 

"Of  course  it  is  a  wretched  marriage  fur  Molly 
with  her  looks." 


i! 


MM 


86 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


"  I  should  think  it  was.  That  is  why  I  warned 
you.  It  is  such  a  pity  that  somo  people  will  never 
listen  to  good  advice  till  it  is  too  late." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  it  is  not  too  late,  Anna  ! " 

"  Humph  !  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Of  course  I  can't  afford  to  take 
IMolly  anywhere,  but  if  she  could  go  away  I  think 
the  change  would  put  it  out  of  her  head.  He  is 
wild  about  her,  but  I  really  don't  think  she  cares 
very  much  for  him  yet." 

"  She  ought  to  go  where  her  mind  might  be 
opened,  and  her  ideas  elevated.  Living  in  the  poky 
way  people  do  here,  the  girl  has  no  idea  what  life  is 
like  in  a  really  good  house.  She  doesn't  understand 
what  she  is  throwing  away  by  making  such  a  bad 
marriage  ;  she  should  sj)end  a  fortnight  with  the 
Templetons." 

"  I  wish  she  could,"  cried  Mrs.  Marsham  fervently, 
for  of  the  splendour  of  the  Templetons'  establish- 
ment she  had  heard  very  often  from  her  sister. 

"  I  will  arrange  it,'*  said  this  excellent  aunt. 

About  ten  days  later  Molly  was  driving  up  the 
long  road  that  led  from  the  lodge  gates  of  Bren- 
nington  Park  to  the  house,  her  elation  slightly  chilled 
by  the  fact  that  she  was  seated  in  the  village  fly, 
instead  of  in  one  of  those  imposing  equipages  so 
often  described  by  her  aunt.  Nothing,  however,  even 
in  "  Sybilla's  "  novels,  coidd  surpass  her  reception  at 
the  hall  door  by  four  powdered  footmen,  or  the  dazzling 
vista  presented  by  the  three  resplendent  drawing- 


THE  WRONG  PRESCFTPTFON, 


87 


50 

m 

It 

I? 


rooms  through  which  she  was  piloted  hy  the  butler. 
In  the  last,  the  smallest,  and  the  most  luxuriously 
furnished  of  the  three,  Molly  was  received  by  Mrs. 
Templeton.  She  was  an  elderly  woman,  still  pretty, 
as  well  as  elegant,  but  her  careworn  expression  curi- 
ously reminded  Molly  of  her  friend  Mrs.  Brown, 
whose  life-work  it  was  to  bring  up  eight  children  on 
something  like  two  hundred  a  year.  Mrs.  Templeton's 
manner,  though  plaintive,  was  kind,  and  having 
offered  Molly  some  tea,  she  turned  to  a  beautifully- 
engraved  tray  covered  with  exquisite  china  and 
silver,  and  poured  it  out  in  a  rather  hap-hazard 
fashion,  putting  in  tlie  cream  Avhich  ^Folly  refused, 
and  leaving  out  the  sugar  which  she  had  asked  for. 
But  that  did  not  account  for  the  quality  of  the 
beverage,  which  was  unlike  anything  Molly  had  ever 
tasted.  It  is  only  served  usually  in  the  houses  of 
the  great,  but  can  be  made  in  the  humblest  dwell- 
ing by  pouring  tepid  water  on  the  tea  leaves  and 
allowing  them  to  soak  for  hours. 

The  bread  and  butter  which  accompanied  this  was 
so  thin  as  to  bo  almost  transparent,  and,  as  such, 
failed  to  gratify  ^lolly's  plebeian  taste.  She  habitu- 
ally ate  more  at  this  meal  than  at  any  other,  and 
her  journey  had  made  her  unusually  hungry,  so  she 
thought  rather  wistfully  of  the  brown  cakes  and 
steaming  cups  now  being  handed  about  at  home. 

"I  am  so  sorr)*/'  said  Mrs.  Templeton,  "that  I 
could  not  send  the  carriage  to  meet  you,  but  I  took 
rather  a  long   drive  yesterday,  and   Mr.  Templeton 


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THE   WRONG  PRESCIUPTIO.Y. 


thought  the  liorscs  must  rest  to-day,  as  they  are  the 
only  pair  in  the  stable  which  are  not  laid  up  at 
present.  Horses  are  a  great  anxiety  ;  don't  you  think 
so?" 

Molly  explained  that  it  was  one  with  which  lier 
family  had  not  been  burdened. 

"  You  are  most  fortunate,"  said  Mrs.  Temploton 
with  real  feeling.  "  Wo  hire  a  great  deal ;  I  wish 
wo  could  do  so  more,  only  of  course  it  seems  rather 
extravagant,  when  we  have  ten  or  twelve  horses  of 
our  own.  But  I  dislike  taking  them  out,  for  they 
are  so  often  ill  afterwards,  and  Mr.  Templeton  is  very 
[)articular  about  them ;  and  yet  I  never  go  farther 
than  Giles,  the  coachman,  wishes  mc  to  go,  and  I 
always  let  him  choose  the  road  too,  which  is  tiresome, 
for  the  hilliest  drives  are  sometimes  the  prettiest, 
and  of  course  he  thinks  the  flat  way  best  for  the 
horses.  What  I  should  really  like  above  everything 
would  be  a  little  donkey,  that  I  might  drive  myself, 
and  go  out  with  whenever  I  liked,  but  Mr.  Temple- 
ton  will  not  hear  of  it.  Will  you  have  some  more 
tea  ?     Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  your  room." 

This  room,  which  they  reached  by  a  palatial  stair- 
case and  a  long  corridor  lined  with  pictures,  v^as  so 
large  that  it  rather  overpowered  Molly.  As  she  stood 
in  the  centre  of  a  great  plain  of  carpet,  and  saw  the 
yellow  brocade  curtains  at  one  end  faintly  reflected  in 
the  cheval  glass  at  the  other,  she  felt  a  little  solitary, 
and  wondered  anxiously  what  it  would  be  like  at 
night.     Large  as  it  was,  however,  Molly,  who  had  an 


THE   WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


89 


inconvenient  passion  for  fresh  air,  must  needs  open, 
or,  at  least  try  to  open  one  of  the  great  wimlows. 
The  effort  exhausted  much  strength  and  time,  and 
finally  in  des2)air  she  ventured  fo  ring  the  bell,  or  at 
least  to  pull  the  bell-rope,  for  though  she  did  this 
with  some  veliemence  five  or  six  times,  the  maid  who 
at  last  brought  in  her  hot  water  denied  having  heard 
a  sound.  However,  she  at  once  fetched  a  footman, 
and,  by  their  united  strength,  they  managed  at  last 
to  lower  the  heavy  sash. 

All  this  helped  to  pass  away  the  time  till  eight 
o'clock,  when  the  gong  sounded,  and  Molly,  all  in 
white,  went  down  to  dinner.  She  was  the  only 
guest,  and  was  thus  conducted  to  the  dining-room 
by  Mr.  Templeton,  who  was  fatter  and  ruddier  than 
his  wife,  but  not  much  happier-looking.  The  dinner, 
served  by  five  servants  in  what  might  have  been 
called  a  banqueting-hall,  was  a  triumph  of  gastro- 
nomic art.  The  onenu  alone  would  have  made  a 
gourmet's  mouth  water.  Unfortunately  it  was  rather 
wasted  on  those  before  whom  it  was  spread. 

Molly  disliked  everything  rich  and  rare  in  the 
way  of  eating,  and  would  have  been  much  better 
pleased  with  bread  and  jam ;  Mrs.  Templeton  had  no 
appetite,  and  Mr.  Templeton,  the  only  one  capable  of 
appreciating  what  was  set  before  him,  had  been 
ordered  by  Sir  Michael  Smith  to  dine  on  a  mutton 
chop  and  a  plain  boiled  potato.  One  part  of  the 
repast  however,  Molly  did  thoroughly  enjoy  :  the 
large  purple  grapes  handed  to  her  at  dessert.     The 


I  a.  ill 
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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT.3) 


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1.25 


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1.4    IIIIII.6 


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Silences 
Corporation 


23  We^:  MAIN  STKiT 

WEBSTER,  N.y.  14580 

(7;6)  872-4503 


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THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


II    i 


mere  sight  of  them  seemed  to  disagree  with  Mr. 
Templeton.  . 

"  Emily,"  he  cried  in  a  sharp,  peevish  tone,  lean- 
ing forward  to  see  his  wife's  face,  hidden  from  him 
by  the  gilt  candelabra  and  massed  orchids  in  the 
centre  of  the  table,  "where  do  these  grapes  come 
from?" 

"I  think  they  come  from  Brown's." 

"  From  Brown's !  How  much  does  he  ask  for 
them  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  I  think  Mrs.  Davis  said 
they  were  two  or  three  shillings  a  pound."  -    . 

"  Three  shillings  a  pound !  And  I  keep  eight 
gardeners,  and  we  use  tons  of  coal  a  year  in  the 
vineries !  " 

"Yes,  James,  but  we  never  have  any  grapes." 

*'The  vines  are  covered  with  bunches  of  grapes." 

**  Yes,  James,  but  they  are  not  nearly  fit  to  eat 
yet."  _  -   ,  ,  ■,      ,„ 

"  Well,  I  should  think  you  could  wait  till  they  are. 
I  suppose  you  can  live  without  grapes.  I  never 
heard  of  such  extravagance  in  my  life."  This  was 
only  a  form  of  speech,  however,  for  it  would  seem 
that  Mrs.  Templeton  had  been  guilty  of  many  like 
extravagances,  all  of  which  her  husband  began 
now  to  remember  and  to  recounc,  ending  with  the 
glaring  instance  of  her  having  bought  violets  in 
spring. 

"  I  haven't  bought  any  since,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton 
meekly.     "  The  little  bunch   in  my   boudoir   Mrs* 


It  t j ' 

m 


:the  wrong  prescription,        91 

Bennett  gave  me.  I  cannot  think  liow  it  is  ;  they 
keep  no  gardener,  only  a  man  who  comes  in  three 
times  a  week,  and  yet  they  always  have  such  lovely 
flowers,  and  their  grapes  are  ripe  already." 

Altogether  the  tone  of  the  conversation  was  so 
depressing,  that  Molly  was  glad  when  they  moved 
to  the  drawing-room,  now  brilliantly  illuminated  ; 
though  even  there  the  evening  was  not  so  gay  as 
she  had  been  accustomed  to  spend.  Mr.  Templeton 
slept  behind  his  paper,  and  Mrs.  Templeton  rested 
her  eyes  while  Molly  played  on  the  grand  piano, 
which  was  a  good  deal  out  of  tune. 

"  Thank  you,  ray  dear,  you  have  a  sweet  touch," 
said  Mrs.  Templeton.  "  Do  chose  a  nice,  comfortable 
chair.  Do  you  care  for  photographs  ?  There  are 
some  on  that  table.  I  do  hope  you  won't  find  it 
dull.     We  are  so  quiet  here."  •    , 

"Don't  you  often  have  visitors?"  asked  Molly, 
rather  wistfully  contemplating  the  roonjs,  which 
seemed  specially  designed  and  arranged  for  large 
numbers. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton  ;  "  hardly  ever.  One 
at  a  time  I  like,  but  more  than  that  is  such  an 
anxiety."    /  v    ,  .  -     •^-!-> 

This  sentence  plunged  Molly  into  a  sea  of  conjec- 
ture as  to  whether  it  was  a  more  anxious  task  to 
entertain  in  a  house  as  large  as  an  hotel,  and  as  well 
provided  with  servants,  than  in  a  tiny  abode  like  her 
own  with  one  hired  maiden  and  no  spare  room.  As 
she  was  still  wrestling  with  the   puzzle  whilst  she 


m 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 

» 


turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  photograph  album, 
Mrs.  Templeton  spoke  again. 

"  That  is  my  son  Algernon — our  only  child.  He 
is  in  Australia.  No,  he  is  not  a  soldier.  He  is  no- 
thing in  particular.  He  lives  out  there,  because  he 
likes  the  life.  It  is  a  most  extraordiLary  thing,  and 
a  great  grief  to  his  father  and  me.  Yes,  he  comes 
to  see  us  sometimes.  He  came  home  two  years  ago, 
but  he  never  stays  long.  He  can't  stand  the  life 
here.  He  seems  to  prefer  living  in  a  wooden  hut, 
and  making  his  own  bread,  and  going  about  dressed 
like  a  common  navvy.     Is  it  not  sad  ? " 

Then  the  clock,  supported  by  gold  nymphs  and 
cupids  on  the  mantelpiece,  struck  ten,  and  Mr.  Tem- 
pleton woke  up  to  go  to  bed,  for  at  Brennington 
Park  they  observed  the  first  clause  of  the  old  pro- 
verb. They  were  so  far  from  carrying  out  the  second 
injunction,  that,  before  breakfast,  Molly,  seizing  an 
opportunity  her  busy  life  at  home  did  not  afford,  was 
able  to  indulge  in  a  long  reverie,  of  which  Mr. 
Charles  Hartley  was  the  subject. 

Mr.  Templeton's  first  complaint  at  breakfast  was 
that  there  was  nothing  to  eat.  Omelet,  partridge, 
salmon,  brawn,  ham,  and  perigord  pie  he  peevishly 
rejected,  and  decided  at  last  to  have  an  egg,  plain 
boiled. 

This,  however,  was  not  so  easy. 

"  Why  is  it,  Emily  ? "  he  cried  in  excusable  indig- 
nation, "that  with  a  man-cook  and  half-a-dozen 
kitchen-maids,    I  can   never    get   an   egg  properly 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


n 


'ly 


cooked  ?  Yesterday  it  poured  over  tlie  plate  when 
I  broke  the  shell :  this  morning  it  is  so  hard  you 
could  play  at  football  with  it.  Miss  Marsham,  are 
you  going  to  eat  nothing  but  bread  ?  " 

And  indeed  upon  bread  and  marmalade  she  break- 
fasted, with  an  appetite  which  roused  the  wonder 
and  envy  of  her  hosts. 

**  How  nice  to  be  able  to  eat  bread ! "  ci*ied  Mrs. 
Templeton.  **  I  never  dare  touch  it,  my  doctors  have 
forbidden  it  so  strictly.  I  think  I  could  relish  it 
better  than  anything  else,  but  I  have  very  little 
appetite.  It  must  be  a  delightful  thing  to  be 
hunocrv." 

"  You  should  take  more  exercise,"  said  her  husband. 
"  Driving  is  no  good  ;  you  should  w^alk." 

"  So  I  do.  I  walk  every  day  when  the  weather 
is  suitable.  Miss  Marsham,  do  you  feel  inclined  to 
take  a  walk  with  me  this  morning  ?  '* 

Molly  accepted  this  proposal  with  delight.  A  walk 
in  the  country  —  real  country  —  like  that  round 
Brennington  Park,  was  a  rare  and  entrancing  privi- 
lege. Hoping  it  might  lead  across  fields  and  down, 
she  donned  her  shortest  skirts  and  her  thickest  boots, 
but  when  she  joined  Mrs.  Templeton  in  the  hall,  she 
found  her  attired  in  a  fur-lined  paletot  reaching  to 
the  heels — the  high,  tapering  heels  of  her  deli  en  te 
kid  shoes. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  be  too  warm,  Simpkins  ? " 
said  Mrs.  Templeton,  looking  at  Molly's  little  cape. 

"  Oh,  no,  madam,"  said  a  tall  woman  who  stood 


r" 


94 


TI/£   WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


behind  her  holding  her  parasol  and  gloves.  "  The 
wind  is  chilly  this  morning,  and  you  can  only  walk 
in  the  pleasure-grounds  because  it  rained  last  night, 
and  the  Park  road  is  quite  damp." 

Accordingly,  to  these  ornate  regions  was  their  walk 
confined.  Nothing  in  its  own  way  could  liave  been 
more  admirable,  for  the  head  gardener,  though  in- 
different to  grapes  or  violets,  took  great  pride  in  the 
pleasure-grounds,  and  lavished  much  time  and  work 
upon  them.  Not  a  stray  leaf  disfigured  the  lawns, 
smooth  almost  as  polished  stone  were  the  gravel 
walks,  and  the  blossom  of  the  flower  beds  was  as 
neat  and  compact  as  if  it  had  been  clipped  like  the 
tall  box  hedges.  But  all  this  seemed  fiat  and 
tedious  to  Molly,  pining  for  wild  woods  and  stubble 
fields.  They  went  at  what  seemed  to  her  a  funereal 
pace,  and  even  then,  the  exertion  was  more  than 
Mrs.  Templeton  could  well  support,  and  she  was  fain 
to  pause  and  rest  every  ten  minutes  upon  the  rustic 
seats  provided  for  that  purpose,  as,  indeed,  an  athlete 
might  have  done  if  cloaked  and  shod  in. the  same 
way.  Molly,  too,  was  very  much  exhausted  at  the 
end  of  the  expedition,  which,  on  the  whole,  did  them 
both  more  harm  than  good.  -     r       '  \:r 

"The  doctors  tell  me  to  walk,"  said  Mrs.  Temple- 
ton,  much  discouraged,  "but  it  never  suits  me.  I 
cannot  do  it." 

At  three  o'clock,  there  appeared  before  the  door 
a  brougham  of  the  latest  and  most  approved  construc- 
tion, and  two  roans   that  had   cost  Mr.  Templeton 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


95 


several  hundred  pounds  to  begin  with.  That  gentle- 
man came  out  to  see  the  ladies  start,  and  to  display 
a  flattering  interest  in  the  direction  of  their  drive,  not 
altogether  on  their  account,  however. 

"  It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  pretty  country,  but 
the  road  to  Sleaton  is  not  a  good  one,  and  Tracey  is 
too  far.  That  horse,  you  will  please  remember,  has 
just  got  over  his  lameness,  and  I  don't  want  to  have 
another  vet's  bill  to  pay.  You  can't  do  better  than 
drive  along  the  high  road  to  Yonchurch.  Take  the 
horses  along  gently,  Giles." 

Giles  carried  out  this  order  so  conscientiously  that 
Mrs.  Templeton  soon  fell  asleep,  and  Molly  was  left 
to  meditate  on  the  mysterious  nature  of  pleasure. 
For  what  she  had  hitherto  looked  upon  with  envy, 
a  drive  in  a  ffxshionable  carriage,  proved  to  be  not 
half  so  exhilarating  as  one  she  had  taken  at  the  sea- 
side a  few  weeks  ago  in  a  peculiarly  shabby  fly,  in- 
elegantly filled  to  overflowing.  True,  her  companions, 
no  less  than  six  in  number,  so  far  from  being  asleep, 
had  been  more  than  commonly  awake,  and  in  the 
highest  spirits,  so  that  they  had  laughed  nearly  all 
the  way  at  nothing.  Charles  Hartley  had  been  one 
of  the  party,  but,  indeed,  had  returned  less  cheerfully 
than  he  went,  for  Molly  had  snubbed  him  on  the  sea- 
sands,  where  they  took  their  luncheon.  This  treat- 
ment had  been  utterly  undeserved,  but  only  now, 
for  the  first  time,  did  she  recognise  this. 

"  What  a  brute   I  was  !  "  she  thought.     •'  Poor 
Charley  1     How  I  wish  he  were  here  now  !  " 


ii 


'5^ 


il 


i 


96 


THE   WRONG  PRESCRIPTION, 


"  We  have  had  a  nice  drive,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton, 
as  the  carriage  stopped  before  the  front  door  again. 
"  There  is  nothing  like  taking  the  air.  I  feel  quite 
refreshed." 

This  was  especially  fortunate,  as  a  woeful  reception 
awaited  her.  Her  husband  himself  came  to  meet 
her  with  a  face  so  gloomy  that  she  uttered  a  cry  of 
alarm,  and  Molly's  thoughts  turned  instantly  to  the 
son  in  Australia. 

*'  I  have  told  you  over  and  over  again  how  it  would 
be,  Emily,"  said  Mr.  Templeton  solemnly,  "but  you 
would  have  your  own  way.  I  advised  you  to  lock  up. 
that  Sevres  vase  vrhere  nobody  could  possibly  get  at 
it, .  but  you  w^ould  not  listen  to  me,  and  now  your 
servants  have  broken  it." 

"  Oh — not  badly,  James  ? " 

"  Smashed  to  atoms." 

Mrs.  Templeton  sank  upon  one  of  the  carved  oak 
chairs  in  the  hall,  and  subsided  into  tears.  When 
she  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  speak,  she  lifted  up 
a  voice  broken  with  emotion  to  protest  that,  though 
she  had  been  rash  enough  to  leave  this  exquisite 
ornament  where  it  might  be  seen,  she  had  given 
strict  orders  that  no  member  of  her  household  should 
touch  it,  even  with  the  corner  of  a  duster. 

Then  a  kind  of  court  of  inquiry  was  held,  in  which 
everybody  from  Mrs.  Davis,  the  housekeeper,  dov/n- 
wards,  was  examined  and  cross-examined.  As  to. 
the  actual  culprit  there  was  no  doubt :  it  was  the 
odd  boy,  but  a  more  puzzling  question — considering 


THE   WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


n 


he  was  hired  to  do  the  dirty  work  of  the  establish- 
ment— was  hoAv  it  came  into  his  hands  at  all.     The 
answer  was  still  undiscovered  at  dinner  time.     Of  tea 
nobody  had  time  to  think  except  Molly,  who,  having 
longed  for  it  in  vain,  was  now  hungry  enough  for  once 
to  eat  a  respectable  dinner.     She  was  the  only  one 
who  could.   Mrs.  Templeton  merely  sipped  a  little  soup 
and  wine,  and,  though  Mr.  Templeton  partook  of  all 
that  his  Spartan  diet  did  not  forbid,  he  repeatedly, 
explained  that  he  could  eat  nothing.    In  the  draw- 
ing-room afterwards,  Mr.  Templeton  afforded  himself 
and  his  wife  a  kind  of  melancholy  pleasure  by  recall- 
ing and  reciting  the  various  excellences  of  their  lost 
treasure :    the  form,  the  colour,  and,  above  all,  the 
mark ;   the  price    he   had  paid  for  it,  and  the  still 
larger  price  he  might  have  now  received,  had   he 
chosen  to  part  with  it.     Mrs.  Templeton  in  her  turn 
expatiated   on    the   depravity  of  ^  human   nature   as 
exhibited   in    the    conduct    of  her   servants,  whose 
dehght  it  was  to  disobey  her  orders,  and  to  destroy 
everything  that  she   most   prized.      Exhausted  by 
grief  they  retired  earlier  than  usual,  and  even  Molly 
was  glad  to  get  to  bed,  though  she  dreamt  lugu- 
brious dreams  all  night,   and  awoke  next  morning 
with  a  vague  impression  that  there  had  been  a  death 
in  the  family. 

The  bitterest  sorrow  cannot  last  for  ever.  By  the 
day  following,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Templeton  were  more 
composed,  and  by  the  evening  showed  signs  of 
reviving  cheerfulness.    One  day  more  and  all  might 

o 


h'-i 


1 


Il 


98 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


have  gone  well,  had  not  the  weather  taken  a  perverse 
and  most  depressing  turn.  Frotn  early  morning  till 
late  at  night  it  rained  unrelentingly,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  Molly  was  brought  face  to  face  with 
that  demon  of  dullness  whom  hitherto  she  had 
known  only  by  report.  In  her  life  as  it  sped  at 
home  there  was  never  a  vacant  place  where  he  could 
by  any  chance  obtrude  himself,  least  of  all  on  a  wet 
day,  for  that  was  always  seized  by  the  Marsham 
family  as  a  fortunate  time  for  getting  through  arrears 
of  work  that,  where  there  v/as  so  mnch  to  do,  often 
accumulated. 

At  Brennington  Park  it  was  a  very  different  thing. 
There  w.ns  nothing  to  do,  and  if  there  were,  thought 
Molly,  looking  round  her  with  mingled  feelings  in 
the  drawing-rooms,  how  could  it  with  decency  have 
been  done  here  ?  Could  she  there,  or  in  Mrs.  Tem- 
pleton's  no  less  exquisite  boudoir,  have  trimmed  a 
bonnet,  or  cut  out  a  dress,  or  handled  anything  but 
the  most  useless  of  fancy  work  ?  She  sewed  at  some 
embroidery  till  she  was  weary  of  it,  and  then  turned 
to  reading.  There  was  a  good  collection  of  books  in 
the  library,  but  the  key  of  the  bookcases  had  unfor- 
tunately been  mislaid  for  some  time,  and  the  books 
from  the  circulating  library  Molly  had  read  long  ago. 

"It  is  a  long   time    since  they  were  changed,  I 

know,"  said  Mrs.  Templeton  candidly.     *'  And  I  don't 

think  I  have  read  them  all  yet.     I  never  have  any 

time  for  reading."  • '^*' 

•  In  the  afternoon  the  sky  brightened  and  the  rain 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPT.'ON, 


99 


fell  less  heavily.      Mrs.  Templeton  was  tempted  to 
take  a  turn  in  the  grounds,  but  this  project  wo"  at 
once  crushed  by  Simpkins,  who  represented  that  by 
going  out  in  such  weather  her  mistress  would  inevit- 
ably ruin  her  clothes,  if  not  her  health.     Molly  for 
one  moment  was  tempted  to  offer  the  loan  of  some 
of  her  own  less  valuable  garments  to  Mrs,  Templeton, 
but,  remembering  how  that  lady  had  walked  under 
the    most    favourable   circumstances,    felt   doubtful 
whether  in  wind  and  wet  she  could  make  any  pro- 
gress at  all.     She  ventured  forth    herself,  however, 
in  an  ulster  which  no  weather  could  spoil,  and  after 
wandering  for   two   hours  at   lier  own   sweet  will, 
returned  in   better    spirits.       But   the  glow   of    a 
quickened  circulation  seemed  to  fad3  when,  dryshod 
once  more,  and   in   stainless  skirts,  she  entered  the 
lofty,    magnificent,     but    cheerless    drawing-rooms. 
Why  were  they  so  depressing?     Molly,  standing  at 
one   end    and    contemplating    the   whole   g(>rgeous 
sequence,  tried  earnestly  to  discover.     Were  they  too 
tidy  ?     Could   any  room   be   that  ?    At   home    she 
waged  a  constant  war  with  Tom's  disorderly  ways  ; 
now  she   almost   longed  for   his   presence.     A  few 
chairbacks  crumpled  up,  newspapers  scattered  here 
and  there,  and  music  showered  wildly  on  or  about 
the  piano,  might  have  had,  she  fancied,  an  enliven- 
ing effect.     A  wave  of  home-sickness  came  over  her, 
and  there  rose  before  her  a  tantalizing  picture  of  the 
little  room  in  that  tiny  house  in  a  suburban  row, 
where  now,  while  waiting  for  tea,  they  would  have 


•til 


100 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION, 


gathered  round  the  fire.  Ah  !  the  fire  !  Perhaps 
that  was  partly  what  she  missed  on  this  chill,  sunless 
afternoon.  At  Mrs.  Marsham's  they  lit  the  fire  when 
it  was  cold  ;  at  Brennington  Park  they  lit  it  from 
the  first  of  November  to  the  thirty-first  of  May,  and 
never  between  those  two  dates,  as  undue  expenditure 
of  coal  was  peculiarly  abhorrent  to  Mr.  Templeton's 
frugal  mind.  These  unprofitable  musings  were  inter- 
rupted by  the  entrance — not  of  the  tea-tray,  as  Molly 
had  fondly  hoped — but  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Templetoni 
both  somewhat  perturbed  in  spirit. 

Mr.  Templeton,  like  Molly,  had  found  the  day  long, 
but  instead  of  passing  the  time  in  dozing,  like  Mrs. 
Templeton,  he  had  devoted  it  to  investigating  that 
portion  of  the  house  shut  off  from  the  rest  by  a  red 
swing  door,  which  the  servants  consider  especially 
their  own.  The  result  of  this  inquisition  had  been  in 
no  way  agreeable.  To  begin  with,  the  cook  and  the 
butler  had  both  given  warning. 

"And  what  if  they  have  ? "  said  Mr.  Templeton.  "  I 
suppose  there  are  other  cooks  and  butlers  to  be  had." 

"  I  don't  know,  I  am  sure,"  cried  Mrs.  Templeton, 
in  the  voice  of  one  who  is  not  to  be  comforted.  "All 
I  know  is  that  when  the  butler  goes,  the  footmen 
generally  go  too,  and  as  to  a  cook,  I  don't  know 
where  we  shall  get  one  as  nice  as  Lefranc.  He  may 
have  been  expensive,  but  he  was  always  so  obliging, 
and  never  once  got  the  least  tipsy." 

"You  can't  say  the  same  of  your  butler." 

•'  No,   of  course  he  did  take  a  little  too  much 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


lOI 


icr 


sometimes,  but  he  always  kept  sober  when  we  had 
people  to  dinner.'' 

"Well,  I  am  not  going  to  have  things  destroyed 
in  this  way.  Lefranc  by  his  mismanagement  has 
utterly  ruined  that  hot-water  apparatus  I  put  up  in 
the  spring." 

"  He  never  liked  it.*' 

"  He  never  liked  it  ?  Hang  his  impertinence  ! 
Am  I  not  to  be  master  in  my  own  house  ?  And  do 
you  think  it  right  that,  when  I  have  gone  to  the 
expense  of  having  special  trays  and  fittings  made  for 
the  silver,  the  menservants  will  not  use  them.  The 
fact  is,  the  servants  are  allowed  to  do  precisely  what 
they  like  in  this  house,  and  everything  goes  to  rack 
and  ruin  in  consequence." 

So  saying  Mr.  Templeton  angrily  withdrew. 

"  That  is  always  the  end  of  everything  with  Mr. 
Templeton,"  said  his  wife,  sitting  down  on  her  own 
particular  easy-chair  in  a  corner  draped  with  tinted 
silks,  and  surmounted  by  mirrors  and  cupids  of 
antique  Dresden.  "  He  offends  the  servants  and  then 
they  give  warning,  and  then  he  says  it  is  my  fault. 
Mrs.  Davis,  the  housekeeper,  says  she  is  tired  of  find- 
ing servants,  and  so  am  I,  for  of  course  I  liave  to 
read  their  characters  and  see  them  when  they  come, 
or  Mr.  Templeton  says  I  am  neglecting  my  duty. 
And  what  is  the  good  of  my  seeing  them  ?  If  they 
like  us,  they  stay,  and  if  they  don't,  they  go  away. 
There  are  plenty  of  better  places,  th^^y  say,  and  they 
call  this  very  dull.    And  those  new  stoves  and  cup- 


102 


THE  iVRONQ  PRESCRIPTION. 


boards  and  chests  wbich  Mr.  Templeton  is  fond  of 
putting  up,  they  don't  like  them,  they  always  break 
them.  Of  course,  it  is  a  great  waste  of  money,  but 
what  is  the  good  of  saying  anything  to  them  ?  They 
only  go  awa-y,  and  then  I  have  all  the  trouble  of  help- 
ing Mrs.  Davis  to  get  new  ones,  v»'ho  do  just  the 
same.  I  feel  so  tired,  and  worried,  :md  sick  of  life,  I 
don't  know  what  to  do.  I  never  seem  to  get  any 
peace — enjojonent  I  don't  expect — but  I  think  at 
my  time  of  life  I  might  be  allowed  a  little  peace  and 
rest ;  but  I  never  have  any,  1  am  always  so  worried 
and  bothered  about  the  house  and  the  servants. 
How  cold  it  is !  I  wish  they  would  bring  us  some 
tea,  but  they  are  all  so  put  out,  I  don't  know  when 
we  shall  get  any."  ,;-,.^  I-..  :, 

It  was  so  dark  now  that  colour  and  glitter  had 
vanished  from  the  gold,  the  silver,  the  marble,  the 
porcelain,  the  rich  draperies,  and  the  embroidered 
stuffs,  and  Molly  could  only  dimly  discern  the  out- 
lines of  this  splendour  and  of  the  desolate  figure  that 
sat  in  the  midst  of  all,  complaining.  ,7.  w.  .  ^^>.  -\ 
'  "I  often  thinV.,"  went  on  this  victim  of  fortune, 
wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  "  how  nice  it  would 
be  if  one  might  clxoose  one's  own  place  in  this  Torld. 
If  I  could  live  in  a  little  cottage,  and  have  just  a  few 
hundreds  a  year,  I  should  be  as  happy  as  the  day  is 
long." 

Two  days  after  this  Mrs.  Marsham  read,  with  feel- 
ings which  need  not  be  described,  the  following 
letter : — 


THE  WRONG  PRESCRIPTION. 


»03 


"Dearest  Mama,       v  ^ 

"  Please  expect  me  to-morrow  by  the  train  whicli 
reaches  the  new  station  at  4.20  in  the  afternoon.  I 
really  can  stand  this  no  longer — it  is  so  frightfully 
dull.  I  hope  you  will  not  be  angry,  dear  mama,  but 
I  have  written  to  Mr.  Hartley  and  accepted  him.  I 
have  been  thinking  things  over  a  good  deal  since  I 
came  here,  and  I  find  I  care  for  him  more  than  I 
thought;  besides  I  am  sure  from  what  I  see  here 
that  I  am  not  fitted  to  be  a  rich  man's  wife.  With 
love  to  all, 

Your  affectionate  daughter, 

"Molly." 


,-       .t.  •s'r-    '    Tt  ■ 


1  •■       .f. 


'  .»■« 


■<-\ 


t 


*  '  '  ■    ■'     if     -    '"  -  J 


Bt  rose  METCALFE. 
'  There  is  pansiea,  that's  for  thoughts." 


/ 


I. 


^T  St.  Ydeuc,  in  Brittany,  there  is  a  crucifix 
which  stands  by  the  wayside  in  a  winding 
road  ;  it  has  always  been  there,  the  people 
say,  even  before  the  Revolution,  and  hun- 
dreds of  years  before  that — this  calvaire, 
or  another  like  it,  stood  on  the  same  spot. 
It  is  not  a  calvary  properly  so  called,  for  there  is 
but  the  cross  with  the  one  Figure  which  hangs  there 
in  the  sunshine  and  the  rain,  in  the  wild  winter 
nights  and  the  spring  dawn,  and  the  summer  dream- 
ing and  the  autumn  glory. 

A  little  farther,  upon  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
there  stood,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  an  old 
granite  lime-washed  cottage,  with  a  poor  little  orchard 


PENSEE, 


105 


le 


of  apple-trees  behind  it  and  an  unkempt  garden  in 
front,  where  half- wild  roses  and  wallflowers  grew,  to- 
gether with  hyssop,  thyme,  and  rue,  in  a  tangled  mass. 

But  the  special  feature  of  this  garden  was  the 
profusion  of  pansies  which  grew  unchecked  in  great 
clumps — purple  and  yellow,  white  and  brown,  blotched 
and  streaked — untended  but  not  ungathered,  for,  at 
the  proper  season,  Sidonie,  who  lived  in  the  cottage, 
picked  them  to  make  a  drink  good  for  agues,  which 
she  used  to  dispose  of  for  a  few  sous  to  her  neigh- 
bours not  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  pansy  beds. 

In  this  garden,  one  spring  day,  two  little  children 
were  playing,  and  a  strange  thing  happened.  They 
played  contentedly  among  the  flowers  in  the  after- 
noon sunshine ;  they  were  little  girls  of  four  years 
old,  of  exactly  the  same  height  and  complexion,  but 
one  had  the  loveliest  child-face  that  it  is  possible  to 
imagine  ;  the  other  looked  like  a  spoiled  copy  of  her 
companion,  except  that  the  eyes  were  of  the  same 
dark  blue  colour  in  both. 

The  children  played  on,  happy  and  oblivious  of 
everything  but  the  warm  sunshine,  the  spring  flowers, 
the  white  butterflies  that  came  dancing  over  the 
low  garden  wall  like  animated,  wandering  bean  blos- 
soms from  the  bean-field  beyond  the  lane. 

Then  through  the  stillness  there  came  the  un- 
wonted sound  of  carriage-wheels,  the  heavy  roll  of  a 
travelling  coach  in  the  deep  ruts  of  the  road.  At 
a  few  yards'  distance  from  the  cottage  it  halted, 
exactly  opposite  the  calvary  ;  one  of  the  horses  had 


I 


»s- 


I06 


PENSEE. 


l\A 


lost  a  shoe,  and  the  servant  went  back  a  little  way 
to  search  for  it.  The  coach  had  only  one  occupant — 
a  lady  with  a  fair,  wearied  face,  who,  rousing  herself 
at  the  sudden  stoppage,  sat  up  and  looked  out  of  the 
coach  window,  and  came  face  to  face  with  the  crucifix 
by  the  wayside.  A  startled  look  passed  across  her 
face,  then  an  expression  which  was  almost  fear  ;  finally, 
for  she  was  alone,  she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
and,  clasping  her  hands,  said  a  prayer  which  trans- 
formed the  listless  face  into  one  of  intense  supplica- 
tion. At  that  moment  the  servant,  who  wore  a 
livery  dress  of  about  the  middle  of  the  reign  of 
Louis  XVI.,  returned  with  the  shoe,  and  consulted 
the  coachman  as  to  the  nearest  smith's  forge. 

**  This  is  the  consequence  of  going  out  of  one's 
way  to  take  a  new  road  to  please  a  great  lady's 
whims,"  he  grumbled ;  then,  approaching  the  coach 
window,  he  explained  the  situation  to  the  lady,  and 
the  coach  moved  on  a  few  paces  to  the  garden  wall, 
over  which  now,  attracted  by  the  sound  of  wheels, 
two  children's  faces  were  peering  with  wide  eyes  of 
amazement. 

.  V  "  With  your  pleasure,  madame,  I  will  ask  here  if 
there  is  a  blacksmith  in  the  village,"  said  the  servant, 
advancing  up  the  garden  path  to  the  cottage  door. 
But  "blacksmiths  and  horse-shoes  were  far  from  the 
lady's  thoughts  at  that  moment.  At  the  sight  of  the 
children  a  sudden  light  had  sprung  into  her  eyes  ;  it 
was  as  though  the  fine,  sensitive  face  had  suddenly 
leaped  into  light  and  animation. 


PENSEE. 


107 


"  Mon  Dieu !  what  a  lovely  child,"  she  exclaimed. 
**  What  an  angel  of  a  child !  Open  the  door  ;  I  shall 
alight  here,"  and  to  the  astonishment  of  the  servants, 
in  another  moment  she  was  kneeling  on  the  garden 
walk  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to  the  children. 

"  Come  here,  you  beautiful  little  one,"  she  said  ; 
"  come  and  tell  me  your  name." 


9 


le 
it 


"  COMB  HEBE,  YOU  BEAUTIFUL  LITTLE   ONE,  AKD  TELL  ME  TOUR  NAME." 

But  the  two  little  things,  with  eyes  like  those  of 
startled  fawns,  clung  together  for  protection,  and  the 
fairest  child,  taking  the  little  blouse  of  the  other, 
tried  to  bury  her  face  in  its  folds ;  the  plainer  one, 
with  a  sort  of  motherly  instinct,  strove  to  further 
this  innocent  ruse,  and,  holding  up  a  comer  of  the 
blouse,  clutched  with  her  dimpled  fists  at  the  other's 
long  fair  locks,  as  though  to  keep  them  from  the 


■f 

'-4  ft  I 


r-lr 


io8 


PENSEE. 


jewelled  hand  that  was  trying  to  caress  them.  The 
lady  looked  critically  for  a  moment  at  this  little 
sister,  and  then  renewed  her  wooing  of  the  fair  little 
one,  who  began  to  cry  beneath  the  other  s  pinafore. 

"  Ah,  lovely  little  one  !  she  will  not  come  to  me. 
Louise,  bring  me  those  sweetmeats,"  the  lady  called 
to  the  maid,  who  sat  in  the  rumble  of  the  carriage ; 
and  just  then  Sidonie,  hearing  the  unwonted  voices, 
came  down  the  garden  path  in  her  high  muslin  cap. 
The  lady  raised  herself  from  her  kneeling  posture, 
and  confronted  the  peasant  woman  with  a  strange 
eagerness  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ah,  you  are  the  mother,  then  !  Has  she  a 
mother?     Is  it  possible?"  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  aunt  to  these  children,  madame,"  answered 
Sidonie,  bewildered.  "  Both  their  parents  are  dead- 
It  is  left  to  me  to  bring  them  up." 

"  And  no  doubt  you  find  that  a  burden  ! "  said 
the  lady  with  renewed  eagerness.  "  You  are  no 
doubt  poor?  And  this  little  one  with  the  angel 
face — what  is  her  name  ? " 

"  This  one's  name  is  Jeanne  ;  the  other  is  called 
Pens^e,"  said  Sidonie.         ^ 

"  Pens^e.  What  a  beautiful  name  !  After  the 
flowers,  I  suppose."      .     ■       ,    , 

"  I  do  not  know,  madame,"  answered  Sidonie, 
stolidly ;  "  it  was  a  fancy  of  their  mother's  ;  she  was 
always  a  fanciful  girl,  and  not  of  much  good  in  this 
world,  but  she  is  in  Paradise.  The  children  are 
twins." 


PENSEE. 


log 


Inie, 

Iwas 

this 

are 


"  But  iliis  one  should  be  Pens^e,"  said  the  lady  ; 
"  Jeanne  is  too  plain  a  name  for  her.  Why,  her  eyes 
are  the  very  colour  of  the  flower." 

"  Their  eyes  are  just  the  same  colour,  madame." 

"  Yes,  but  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  am  going  to 
ask  you  something.  You  are  not  the  child's  mother, 
and  you  are  poor.  You  will  have  much  care  with 
them  when  they  grow  older.  Will  you  give  this  one 
— Jeanne — tome?" 

"Madaiae!"  said  Sidonie,  breathlessly.  She 
glanced  at  the  lady's  fair  face,  her  rich  dress,  her 
jewelled  hand,  then  at  the  children,  and  for  a 
moment  she  felt  something  like  a  thrill  of  love. 
"  No,  madame,  I  cannot ;  their  mother  left  them  to 
me  to  rear.  They  are  only  peasant  children ;  and 
besides  they  are  twins,  and  cannot  be  separated 
without  ill-luck." 

**  Cannot !"  The  lady  drew  herself  up  to  her  full 
height,  and  stood  confronting  the  brown-cheeked 
peasant  woman.  "  Peasant !  you  do  not  understand 
the  offer  I  make  you  ;  it  is  greatly  to  your  own  interest, 
you  foolish  woman.  I  am  the  Comtesse  St.  George 
le  Flaouet.  I  am  on  my  way  to  Le  Flaouet.  I 
offer  to  take  this  child,  to  adopt  her,  and  if  I  see  fit, 
to  provide  for  her  as  for  a  demoiselle  of  rank — in 
fact,  as  though  she  were  my  own  child,  for  I  have 
none.     Now  do  you  understand  ? " 

Sidonie,  overawed,  glanced  again  at  the  ringed 
fingers,  and  a  greedy  light  sparkled  in  her  eyes.  The 
two  children  were  standing  silently  with  their  little 


110 


PENSEE, 


arms  intertwined,  and  fair  heads  leaning  against  each 
other,  gazing  up  with  calm,  solemn  eyes  at  tho 
dazzling  stranger  like  two  cherubs  striving  to  under- 
stand the  speech  and  ways  of  earth. 

The  lady  saw  Sidonie's  wavering,  and  her  manner 
changed  to  one  of  entreaty,  but  in  a  low  tone  of  voice 
which  was  none  the  less  passionate.  .... 

"  Let  me  speak  to  you  then  simply  as  one  woman 
to  another.  Oh,  if  I  could  make  you  understand  ! — 
I  lost  one — my  only  one — seven  years  ago — seven 
long  years,  think  of  it !  since  then  my  heart  is  dead  ; 
I  am  alone,  I  have  nothing  to  love ;  Monsieur,  my 
husband  is  much  away ;  I  want  a  child,  I  have 
prayed  and  prayed.  See  here,  woman,  listen  to  me  ; 
as  I  passed  your  calvar}'  out  there  just  now  I  made 
my  petition  agair* ;  this  child  is  God's  answer  ;  it  is 
a  miracle,  an  answer  to  my  prayer ;  you  cannot  refuse. 
Oh,  I  shall  make  it  good  to  you,  never  fear — tell  me 
only  how  much." 

For  answer,  Sidonie,  with  a  glance  at  the  maid  in 
the  background,  beckoned  the  lady  to  follow  her  into 
the  cottage.  .->.  v?     v  ,  ^    ■?,.;,;;  s^ 

"  We  will  talk  it  over  here,  madame,  if  you  please," 
she  said  in  her  business  way. 


.ti^ ' 


!> 


The  carriage  came  back  from  the  blacksmith's 
forge,  and  still  waited  in  the  lane,  until  the  afternoon 
shadows  began  to  creep  down  the  garden  walks,  and 
the  children,  making  friends  with  the  maid,  had 
plucked  many  pansy  heads  by  way  of  nosegays  for 


PENSiE. 


Ill 


»» 


je, 


th's 
)on 
md 
lad 
Ifor 


her.     At  last  the  lady  came  to  the  cottage  door, 
called   the   maid  within,  and   whispered  something 

to  her.        ^'•'•'i'' •;..;  '.  ■■,  -^•'•^,^ _;•::  ;  ■  ;■    ■■■■    '•■  •■''     "'.•  t'  .>  i.;    ^. 
'  "  Now,  come  to  me,"  she  said,  turning  to  Jeanne, 
and   holding  out   her  arms,   stooping   towards  the 
child. 

The  little  one,  with  her  spirit-like  eyes  fixed  on 
the  pale,  intent  face,  drawn  as  though  irresisL  bly, 
slowly  disengaged  herself  from  her  sister's  arms,  and 
approached  the  lady,  to  be  folded  in  a  passionate 
embrace.  Then  a  shawl  was  wrapped  round  the 
child,  and  the  lady,  carrying  her  burden,  went  swiftly 
down  the  garden  walk.  In  another  moment  the  car- 
riage was  rolling  away  to  the  Doi  road.  Then  silence 
fell  once  more,  only  to  be  broken  by  little  Pensee's 
wild  sobs.  "  Hush !  "  said  Sidonie,  staring  before 
her  as  though  dazed,  while  the  child  wept  on  her 
arm,  **  thou  wilt  bring  all  the  neighbours  here ;  silly 
chiid,  thou  dost  net  understand  ;  Jeanne  is  gone 
to  be  a  lady,  and  thou  wilt  know  one  day  what  that 
means." 

But  the  sleepy  little  village  having  seen  the  car- 
riage, was  all  on  tip-toe  to  learn  what  had  happened. 
"  I  shall  have  the  whole  village  here  before  night,  and 
M.  le  Cure  into  the  bargain,"  said  Sidonie  to  herself; 
"but  I  shall  keep  my  own  counsel."  And  with  her 
stolid  face  she  sat  and  answered  her  visitors'  ques- 
tions in  as  few  words  as  possible.  "  Yes  ;  Jeanne 
was  gone  to  be  brought  up  in  the  house  of  the  great 
lady,  Madame  la  Comtesse  le  Flaouet ;  it  was  for  the 


112 


PENSEE. 


child's  good,  times  were  hard,  as  tliey  knew,  and  as 
for  the  little  sister,  she  was  to  visit  Jeanne  at  the 
chateau  every  year,  so  madame  had  promised." 

The  visitors  took  the  great  news  in  differing  fashion. 
"  What  a  stroke  of  luck  for  Sidonie  !  She  is  a  for- 
tunate one;  only  imagine  such  a  piece  of  fortune 
falling  to  her !  what  has  the  great  lady  paid  her  ?  but 
Sidonie  is  a  shrewd  one." 

"  She  has  sold  the  child  for  money,  shame  on  her ! 
— how  could  she  part  with  the  sweet  little  one  ? — and 
the  other  one — what  will  become  of  her  ?  they  are 
twins,  and  cannot  be  separated  without  ill-luck ; 
something  will  happen  to  her." 

Without,  was  the  silent  night  :  the  moon,  rising 
over  the  village,  began  to  shed  lorig  tremulous  rays 
upon  the  crucifix  in  the  lane  and  through  the  cot- 
tage window  panes  upon  Pens^e's  little  tear-stained 
cheek  sleeping  alone  on  the  pillow. 


II. 


Thirteen  years  had  passed.  The  old  cottage  still 
iBtood  in  the  lane  at  St.  Ydeuc,  and  Sidonie,  who 
looked  much  the  same,  still  lived  there.  She  was 
sitting  outside  the  door,  shelling  peas  into  her  lap  : 
it  was  a  fine  afternoon  in  June — just  such  another 
as  that  one  thirteen  years  before  when  the  great 
carriage  had  come  by  and  carried  away  Pens^e  s  fair 


PENSEE. 


"3 


jat 
lir 


twin,  little  Jeanne.  And  Pensee,  now  a  young  girl 
of  seventeen,  sat  knitting  by  Sidonie's  side.  The 
late  sunshine  was  sloping  away  down  the  little 
garden,  leaving  the  bright  pansies,  which  grew  there 
in  as  great  profusion  as  ever,  in  grey  shadow  as  the 
sun  sank  away  behind  the  trees. 

*'  Well ! "  said  Sidonie  suddenly,  in  her  rasjiing 
voice,  "  I  suppose  it  is  no  use  to  ask  where  are  your 
thoughts,  Pensee,  that  you  sit  there  without  a  word 
on  your  tongue  to  cheer  a  soul  with — wool-gathering, 
I  suppose,  or  with  the  saints  in  heaven  ?  not  that 
any  good  luck  comes  from  that,  that  I  can  see  :  why 
did  not  your  friends  the  saints  prevent  Dandon  from 
souring  her  milk  last  week,  or  give  a  stir  to  your 
ungrateful  lady  sister's  memory  that  Madame  la 
Comtesse  should  have  missed  sending  my  pension 
money  ? — and  it  is  high  time  that  you  go  to  milk 
Dandon,  paresseuse  that  you  are  ;  if  I  were  not  tied 
by  the  foot  like  this  I  should  have  done  the  milking 
myself  half  an  hour  ago  :  you  are  not  a  fine  lady  like 
your  sister  that  you  can  afford  to  idle  your  time 
away  in  this  fashion  ! " 

Sidonie  ended  with  a  groan  partly  caused  by  her 
rheumatism,  which  was  really  bad,  and  partly  by  ill- 
humour.  Pensde,  without  uttering  a  word,  laid  down 
her  knitting  on  the  bench  :  upon  her  still  face  there 
passed  no  change  ;  it  was  almost  as  though  she  did 
not  hear  Sidonie  :  taking  her  milking-pail  and  stool, 
she  went  away  to  the  orchard  where  the  little  Breton 
cow  was  rubbing  her  sides  against  an  old  apple-tree, 

H 


114 


PENSEE, 


and  turning  gentle  brown  eyes  upon  Pensee  as  she 
approached.  Perhaps  she  did  not  hear  Sidonie's 
rough  words,  any  more  than  the  saints  whom  Sidonie 
blasphemed  ;  at  all  events  they  were  quite  natural 
and  in  the  due  order  of  things  when  Sidonie's  foot 
pained  her ;  her  foot  pained  her,  poor  woman,  but 
her  words  did  not  pain  Pensde. 

"  Dandon,  Dandon  !  "  she  said,  stroking  the  crea- 
ture's neck  as  she  bent  it  towards  the  girl :  then  she 
took  her  stool  and  went  to  her  work  :  her  thoughts 
were  not  with  the  saints  just  then,  but  at  their  other 
resting  place,  the  Chateau  lo  Flaouet,  with  her  sister, 
her  earthly  saint,  her  beautiful,  brilliant  twin-flower, 
of  whom  she  herself  was,  as  it  were,  but  the  dull 
shadow — that  other  Pensee,  for  so  her  adopted 
mother  had  called  her,  changing  her  name  to  her 
sister's  almost  from  the  first.  It  was  three  long  years 
since  Pensee  had  seen  that  sister.  At  first,  while  yet 
they  were  children,  Ma^1*ime  le  Flaouet  had  faithfully 
kept  her  promise,  and  every  year  Pensee  had  spent 
a  day  at  the  ch&teau — one  wonderful  day — clear- 
dawned,  sun-crowned,  star-closed,  standing  out  from 
all  th^^  other  days  of  the  year  like  a  rainbow  in  a 
grey  y.  But  the  last  three  years,  one  excuse  or 
another  nad  come,  and  there  was  no  invitation  to  the 
Chateau.  Worst  of  all  by  far,  in  Sidonie's  eyes,  was 
the  non-appearance  of  the  accustomed  sum  of  money 
which  each  yenr  had  regularly  made  its  appearance 
on  the  anniversary  of  Madame  le  Flaouet's  memor- 
able visit.     Only  once  in  all  those  years  had  she 


PENSEE, 


•IS 


repeated  that  visit,  and  brought  Pensee's  sister  to  see 
her  old  home — a  visit  which  had  furnished  gossip  to 
the  village  for  many  months  to  come. 

"Ah,  Madame  la  Comtesse  knew  what  she  was 
doing  when  she  carried  off  little  Jeanne,"  this  was 
the  general  comment,  "all  the  beauty  and  all  the 
intelligence  had  gone  to  that  one  ;  as  for  the  other 
she  was  a  plain,  stupid  girl,  always  dreaming,  and 
you  had  to  repeat  Avhat  you  wished  to  make  her 
understand  before  she  took  it  in  ;  all  the  same,  she 
was  a  good  girl,  and  would  do  well  enough  to  take 
round  the  milk  for  Sidonie,  now  that  she  had  a  cow, 
provided  that  Pens^e  learnt  the  value  of  money." 

For  Pensee  was  not  brilliant,  and  knew  neither 
how  to  read  nor  write ;  not  that  those  were  at  all 
uncommon  deficiencies  at  that  time,  but  she  was 
certainly  not  clever,  and  the  village,  having  fonned 
the  opinion  that  she  was  stupid,  held  to  it  after  the 
manner  of  villages. 

Perhaps,  unknown  to  itself,  this  opinion  dated 
from  one  day  in  Pensee's  little  life  when  she  was 
about  seven  years  old.  She  was  missed  from  the 
house,  and  when  her  bedtime  came,  was  found  at  the 
foot  of  the  crucifix  in  the  lane  trying  to  pull  out  the 
nails  from  the  feet ;  she  had  only  succeeded  in  chip- 
ping with  a  stone  the  head  of  one  nail,  which  she 
could  just  reach  by  standing  on  a  chair  that  she  had 
dragged  all  the  way  from  Sidonie's  kitchen,  and 
thereby  injured  one  of  its  legs. 

"  Who  is  to  pay  for  all  this  damage,  I  should  like 


^-  ■  %■* 


I''  I 


!     \ 


I 


)■!<' 


ii6 


PENSEF. 


to  know,  then  ?  "  asked  Sidonie,  wrathtully,  of  M.  le 
Cur^,  who  happened  to  be  passing,  and  had  inter- 
posed to  prevent  Sidonie  from  striking  poor  Pens^e ; 
"the  child  is  incorrigibly  stupid.  I  believe  she  will 
grow  up  an  innocent,"  she  said,  tapping  her  forehead 
significantly.  *'  Or  a  t^aint,"  said  M.  le  Cur^,  "  which 
is  much  the  same  thing."  Sidonie  would  have  liked 
to  retort,  but  did  not  dare. 

The  calvary  grew  to  be  a  part  of  Pens^e's  life.  She 
loved  it  even  bettf.  than  the  church  :  it  was  her 
church ;  there  at  its  foot,  after  she  was  bereaved  of 
her  Jeanne,  the  lonely  little  child  would  play  by  the 
hour,  and  babble  half  lo  the  weeds  and  grasses  and 
little  wild  flowers  that  softly  tapped  their  heads 
against  her  round  cheek,  and  half  to  the  great  crucifix 
high  overhead,  to  which  now  and  then  she  lifted  her 
face  and  her  solemn  baby  eyes,  and  joining  her 
liands  together  would  kneel  to  say  the  queer,  won- 
derful baby  prayers  that  only  God  and  the  angels 
heard.  Strange  lights  and  shadows  passed  upon  the 
sky,  and  crossed  the  still,  sculptured  face  high  above, 
bowed  in  the  lonely  majesty  of  love  and  death. 

When  she  grew  older,  she  came  there  every  day  to 
say  her  prayers,  and  no  one,  uot  even  she  herself, 
could  have  told  all  that  the  place  became  to  her.  Like 
things  which  influence  us  most,  its  roots  lay  far 
below  the  surface  of  life.  So  she  grew  up — silent, 
meditative,  self-contained  even  beyond  the  general 
character  of  i  5retons,  living  her  own  life,  and  think- 
r  own  thougats  apart.    She  knew  by  heart  all 


mg 


P£NSEE, 


n? 


y  to 
self, 
jike 
far 
"lent, 
|eral 
link- 
all 


the  legends  of  the  saintd 
which  were  within  her 
reach.  She  knew  also 
many  of  the  half- mystic, 
half-religious  ballads  of  the 
country,  which  have  been 
handed  on  from  one  gene- 
ration to  another,  and 
would  sinrr  them  in  her 
sweet,  small  voice  as  she 
sat  at  work. 

**Pens6e,  Pensee,art  thou 
never  coming  ? "  Sidonie's 
voice  called,  as  Pens^e  with 
her  brimming  milk -pail 
came  down  the  orchard. 
"  Make  haste,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  th^e,  but 
get  my  supper  first." 

Pens^e  brought  two 
basins  from  the  shelf,  into 
which  she 
broke  some 
pieces  of 
bread,  and 
lifting  the 
pot  -  au  -fen 
from  the  fire, 
poured  the 
contents  over 
the  bread. 


**AT  THB  FOOT   OF    THE    OEUCIFIX    m    THE    LANE, 
IBYZNO  TO  PUI,!.  OUT  THE  NAILS  FEOM  THE  FEET." 


m9 


PENSiE, 


"Thou  must  go  to  bed  early  to-night/'  said 
Sidonie,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  "  thou  wilt  have  a 
long  journey  to-morrow  ;  canst  thou  guess  where  ? 
Yes,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  seud  thee  to  Le 
Flaouet  to  see  whether  they  are  dead  or  alive  ;  I 
know  of  nobody  who  is  going,  but  thou  wilt  easily 
walk  it;  it  is  only  fifteen  kilometres  by  the  high 
road,  and  thou  wilt  sleep  there,  and  come  back  the 
next  day." 

Pensee*s  still  face  had  lighted  up:  all  the  soul 
came  into  her  eyes.  **  To  Le  Flaouet !  to  my  Pen- 
see  !  *'  she  exclaimed. 


y" 


III. 


The  Chateau  le  Flaouet  lay  in  the  shimmering 
blaze  of  the  noonday  sun.  All  around,  the  chestnut 
woods  spread  themselves,  league  beyond  league,  wave 
beyond  wave,  of  dim  and  billowy  green  ;  and  over 
them  was  drawn  an  exquisite  veil  of  quivering  blue 
heat  mist,  enfolding  them  in  a  deep  noontide  hush. 

The  birds  were  asleep ;  the  full  orchestra  of  the 
morning  hours  had  gradually  died  into  this  intense 
repose ;  only  now  and  then,  some  voice  breaking  on 
the  silence  called,  and  was  answered  by  another  far 
away,  deeper  yet  in  the  green  twilight  of  the  woods. 

Nearer  to  the  house  were  gardens  with  trellised  or 
box-bordered  paths  opening  upon  stone  terraces, 
squares  of  flowers,  and  walks  with  orange-trees  and 


PENSiE, 


119 


I  Of 


lor 
id 


magnolias  at  their  intersections,  and  fountains  and 
statues  placed  at  intervals. 

There  was  one  square  enclosure,  however,  which 
instead  of  being  laid  out  in  flower  beds  and  walks 
was  covered  with  turf  soft  as  velvet,  and  bounded  by 
f.  trellis  of  roses,  whose  luxuriance  was  trained  over 
the  narrow  path  in  a  long  archway  of  light  green 
leaves  ;  their  Avhite  blossoms  made  it  look  as  though 
flaked  with  summer  snow. 

Through  the  long  green  light  of  this  lovely  vista, 
a  young  girl  was  sauntering  Uselessly ;  the  leaves  all 
around  her  throwing  flickering  shadows,  and  spots  of 
sunlight  upon  her  white  dress  as  she  moved,  and 
beside  her,  a  black  poodle  with  coat  clipped  in  the 
French  manner,  and  a  red  ribbon  for  a  collar,  walked 
sedately. 

The  girl  had  a  book  in  her  hand  but  she  was  not 
reading ;  presently  she  left  the  rose  walk,  and  came 
out  upon  the  sward  of  the  little  lawn  and  stood  there 
as  though  listening,  with  the  sun  glistening  on  her 
hair,  and  turned  her  face,  which  was  as  lovely  as 
some  fair  flower  on  its  stem,  towards  the  distant 
terrace  where  a  glimpse  of  one  wing  of  the  chateau, 
with  its  red-capped  tourclles  and  green-shuttered 
windows,  could  be  seen.  Nothing  broke  the  silence 
except  the  thin  voice  of  the  little  fountain  in  the 
middle  of  the  lawn,  which  threw  up  a  silvery  jet 
from  the  cup  of  a  marble  lotus  flower  which  seemed 
to  rock  upon  the  water ;  or  when  a  bee  droned  past 
laden  with  honey  from  the  flower  beds.     All  around 


If  ii. 


120 


PENSEE, 


the  young  girl  the  flowers  lifted  their  heads  in  the 
sunlight,  and  looked  and  listened  with  her. 

Then  her  voice  broke  the  stillness  with  an  im- 
patient tone. 

" Oh,  what  enniiiy  what  ennui  ! **  she  said,  "it  is 
too  hot  to  read  ;  it  I  could  but  see  M.  I'Abbe  any- 
where in  the  garden  I  would  get  him  to  come  and 
read  this  stupid  Moliere  to  me." 

But  there  was  a  step  which  now  advanced  unmis- 
takably down  the  rose  walk,  and  in  another  moment 
the  figure  of  a  peasant-girl  emerged,  and  then  stood 
still  too  upon  the  sward,  as  though  petrified  by 
the  sight  of  the  beautiful  creature  before  her.  A 
peasant-girl,  wi^h  dusty  sahots  and  travel- stained 
clothes,  and  a  face  not  beautiful  but  with  eyes  that 
looked  and  looked,  as  though  they  could  never  be 
satisfied. 

"  Pensee  ! "  exclaimed  the  young  lady,  recovering 
her  self-possession. 

The  young  peasant  came  forward  with  outstretched 
hands,  saying  too,  "Jeanne! — pardon,  mademoiselle 
I  should  say — is  it  really  you — my  sister,  my  beau- 
tiful sister?" 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  answered  the  fair  Jeanne,  submit- 
ting to  the  embrace  of  the  other  ;  "  but  how  is  it  that 
you  come  here  without  warning  ?  Well,  I  was  just 
wishing  for  some  one  to  amuse  me  ;  let  us  sit  down 
here,  Pensee ;  you  look  as  though  you  had  ^walked 
some  distance." 

"  I  have  walked  all  the  way  from  home ;  I  set  off 


PENSiE. 


"C/ 


■J 
i'l !' 


'^  ■' 


!!i: 


it 


"'pensbe!'  exclaimed  the  youno  lady." 


before  sunrise,"  daid  Pensee,  sitting  down  beside  her 
sister. 

It  was  like  Paradise  to  her  :  she  had  a  vpgue  sense 
of  the  beauty  all  around  her,  of  the  scent  of  the 
flowers,  the  music  of  the  fountain,  the  blue,  cloudless 
sky  arching  overhead  and  shutting  all  in ;  but  she 
had  eyes  for  her  sister  only  :  all  the  fatigue  of  her 
long  journey,  her  hunger  and  thirst,  were  forgotten 
in  the  satisfaction  of  the  loved  presence.  She  sat 
with  her  hands  clasped,  and  gazed  till  Jeanne  smiled  : 


122 


PENSEE, 


"  Well,  Pens^e,  you  look  as  if  you  were  in  churcli," 
she  said. 

"You  have  grown  as  beautiful  as  an  angel — almost 
as  Our  Lady ! "  Pens^e  said. 

A  shadow  fell  across  her  lovely  face.  "  How  can 
you  say  such  things  ?  She  was  Mater  Dolorosa,"  she 
said. 

Then  they  talked  of  many  things,  of  Jeanne's  life 
at  the  chjlteau  chiefly  :  "  I  am  glad  you  are  come, 
Pens^e,"  she  said,  "for  I  am  ready  to  die  of  ennui 
alone  ;  you  must  stay  with  me  a  little.  Maman  is  in 
Paris,  and  she  has  not  written  for  so  long;  I  wish 
she  would  come  home,  for  the  Revolution  in  Paris  is 
getting  worse,  and  the  people  are  growing  more  and 
more  wicked  ;  have  you  not  heard  ?  " 

"  But  I  must  go  home  to-morrow,"  said  Pensee, 
"  my  aunt  expects  it." 

So  Pensee  stayed  that  day  at  the  chateau,  and  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening  the  two  girls  were  in  the 

m 

garden  again. 

"  Here  are  our  flowers !  "  said  Jeanne,  laughing, 
standing  near  a  large  parterre  full  of  nothing  but 
pansies,  which,  highly  cultivated,  made  a  goodly 
show  of  rich  hues. 

**  Oh,  how  beautiful !  I  wish  T  knew  their  names,'* 
said  Pensee,  clasping  her  hands. 

A  black-robed  .figure,  reading  a  book,  came  slowly 
rc-ross  the  sward.  "  Here  is  M.  I'Abb^,"  said  Jeanne, 
"he  will  tell  you,  he  knows  everything  :  this  is  my 
sister,  Pensee,  whom  you  remember,  M.  TAbb^,"  she 


PENSEE. 


»»3 


"o» 


feS, 


v\ 


>) 


y 

ne, 

»y 

she 


continued,  "and  we  want  to  know  the  different 
names  of  our  special  flower,  if  you  Avill  be  so  good  as 
to  tell  us." 

"  The  pansies  ?  " 
said  the  Abbe,  smil- 
ing kindly  at  Pensee, 
who,  dropping  her 
curtsey  in  her  pea- 
sant cap  and  gown, 
looked  a  striking 
contrast  to  her 
white-robed  sister, 
and  yet  with  the 
strange  resemblance 
in  the  eyes  plainly 
visible. 

"They  have  many 
names  ;     in    Latin 
they  are  called  Viola 
Tricolor,    an 'I   also 
Hcrba     Trinitatis, 
because  of  the  three 
hues  of  the  flower : 
in   England,"    con- 
tinued   the    Abb(^, 
who  was  partly  Eng- 
lish,  "  they  bear  a  . 
beautiful    name —  ._ 
•  Heartsease,'  which  means  La  paix  du  coBur,  and  in 
Lancashire,  whero  I  used  to  live,  the  people  call  them 


M.   L'ABDfi. 


124 


PENSiE. 


v 


'  Cull  me  to  you/  and  *  Pansies/  which  is  the  same 
as  our  Pens^e."  ''■"'  "  '        '  ^^^ 

•  "Yes,"  interrupted  Jeanne,  laughing,  '  that  is  the 
best  name  for  Pensea  here  ;  she  is  always  thinking 
good  thoughts,  I  believe." 

"And  in  some  districts  they  are  called  'Live  or 
Love  in  idleness,' "  the  Abb^  said,  turning  his  eyes 
from  Pens^e,  and  letting  them  rest  upon  her  sister 
for  a  moment.  ^  - 

"  That  is  for  me  !"  laughed  Jeanne  again,  "  but  it 
is  a  bad  name  ;  love  is  never  idle,"  she  said,  wdth  a 
sudden  turn  of  thought. 

"These  country  names  are  very  odd,  certainly," 
said  the  Abbd ;  "  there  is  another  which  will  make 
you  smile,  and  yet  you  can  see  how  it  fits  the  flower 
with  its  three  foremost  petals  framed  as  it  were  by 
the  others,  and  their  little  eyes  looking  up  at  you — 
'  Three  faces  in  a  hood.'  "  - 

*'Here  are  two!"  said  Jeanne,  laughing  lightly, 
and  suddenly  throwing  the  white  shawl  which  she 
wore  round  her  own  and  her  sister's  head.  "Sup- 
posing that  we  were  covered  up  like  this,  M.  I'Abbe, 
and  only  our  eyes  were  visible,  could  any  one  tell  us 
the  one  from  the  other  ?" 

No  one  spoke :  only  the  soft  monotone  of  the  foun- 
tain, and  the  late  bird  voices  calling  to  each  other 
in  the  distant  woods  broke  the  stillness :  the  sun 
had  set  and  the  grey  misty  evening  lay  all  around  ; 
only  in  the  west  there  still  lingered  translucent 
opal  lights  like  the  calm  closing  chords  of  the  great 


PENSEE. 


125 


symphony  of  colour  with  which  the  whole  sky  had 
been  ablaze  a  while  before  :  it  was  the  hour,  it 
seemed  to  Pens^e,  when  Christ  was  taken  down  from 
the  Cross. 


Suddenly,  in  the  pause,  there  came  the  ring  of 
horse-hoofs  upon  the  paved  court  of  the  chateau 
beyond  the  high  garden  wall.  The  Abb^  went  to  see 
who  it  was,  and  came  back  after  some  time  with  an 
altered  face. 

"  Something  has  happened,"  said  Pens^e  in  her 
low  voice. 

**  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  priest  gently  to  Jeanne, 
''  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  tell  you  some  bad  news  from 
Paris  :  a  messenger  has  come  from  madame,  your 
mother,  who,  I  fear,  is  ill — she  has  sent  this  " — and 
he  gave  a  note  to  Jeanne,  who  cried  out :  "  Maman 
is  ill,  perhaps  dying ;  she  implores  me  to  go  to  her 
without  delay.  Oh,  Pens^e,  what  shall  I  do  ?  I  am 
full  of  fears.  Paris  is  in  a  terrible  state,  is  it  not, 
M.  I'Abbd?"  ...... 

"  Do  not  fear,"  said  Pens^e,  stepping  to  her  side, 
"  I  shall  go  with  you."  .;   k  s=  y  ;    i     •     ; 

The  priest  looked  pitifully  from  one  to  the  other. 

"It  is  your  duty  to  go,  if  possible,  mademoiselle, 
and  we  shall  find  out  whether  it  will  be  reasonable 
to  enter  Paris  when  we  are  nearer  the  city  ;  but 
ought  you  to  come,  my  child?"  he  said,  turning  to 
Pens^e. 

"  I  will  never  leave  her,"  she  answered. 


Ill  I 


126 


PENSES. 


"  Then  I   shall  escort  you ;    we  will  set  off  to- 
let  us  trust  all  to  God  and  fear 


morrow  morning  ; 
nothing." 


IV. 

The  shop  of  citoyen  Pr^vot,  herbalist  and  apothe- 
cary, of  the  Rue  Saint  Honore,  was  putting  up  its 
shutters  for  the  evening.  It  was  the  month  Vende- 
miaire  of  the  Revolution — September,  according  to 
the  old  world's  reckoning — of  the  year  1793.  The 
"  Law  of  the  Suspect "  had  rendered  any  person 
liable  to  be  arrested  upon  the  mere  suspicion  of 
another. 

A  girl  in  the  costume  of  a  Bretonne  peasant,  but  a 
worn  one,  and  with  a  basket  on  her  arm,  stopped 
upon  the  pavement,  and  glancing  up  at  the  name 
over  the  door  inquired  of  the  boy  who  was  putting 
up  the  shutters  if  a  certain  citoyen  Martin  might 
happen  to  lodge  there.  • 

"  Yes  :  would  the  citoyenne  enter  ?  Citoyen 
Martin  lodged  on  the  third  floor."  ' 

In  the  shop  was  a  small  old  man  in  spectacles 
and  a  velvet  cap,  who  peered  curiously  at  the  girl 
upon  her  asking  for  his  lodger. 

"  I  have  business  with  him ;  I  come  from  the 
countr}^"  she  said.  They  exchanged  a  glance  ;  then 
the  old  man  nodded  and  motioned  the  girl  up-stairs  : 
"Fear  nothing,"  he  muttered,  "the  citoyen  J^Iartin  is 
very  well  lodged  with  me,"  * 


PENSEE. 


127 


a-:  * 


On  the  third  floor  she  stopped  and  tapped  softly  at 
the  door ;  it  was  opened  by  a  man  in  working-dress, 
but  whose  face,  though  changed  and  worn,  was  recog- 
nisable as  that  of  the  Abbd  Martin,  ci-devant  chaj)- 
lain  to  the  Comtesse  le  Flaouet.  On  seeing  Pensee 
his  face  changed. 

"  Oh,  my  child  !  you  are  then  still  in  Paris  ?  How 
did  you  find  me  ? "  he  exclaimed. 

"  M.  I'Abb^,  I  have  found  out  many  things,"  said 
Pensee. 

"  Sit  down,  my  child,  you  are  spent." 

She  sat  down  and  waited  a  little.  Her  face,  pate, 
steadfast,  resolved,  was  no  longer  that  of  a  peaceful, 
dreamy  child  ;  in  three  months  it  had  grown  into  a 
woman's  through  the  power  of  suffering. 

The  Abb^  poured  out  a  glabs  of  water  and  handed 
it  to  her.  "  I  have  been  hiding  here  for  the  last 
month,"  he  said,  "  in  hopes  of  being  of  some  service 
to  Madame  la  Comtesse  and  to  mademoiselle  ;  I  know 
they  are  at  the  Luxembourg  :  have  you  any  news  of 
them  i  And  you,  my  poor  child,  where  are  you  ? — 
how  are  you  living  ? "  ■ 

"  Yes,  I  have  some  news,"  she  answered,  recover- 
ing herself.  "  Oh,  for  me,  I  sell  lemons  in  the  streets 
near  the  prison  ;  I  hear  much  talk  of  the  prisoners 
in  this  way ;  M.  I'Abbe,  they  are  to  be  taken  to  the 
Conciergerie  to-morrow." 

The  priest  sank  into  a  chair,  and  covered  his  face. 
In  a  few  moments  he  said  :  "  Can  it  be  true  ? — is  it 
possible  ? — who  told  you  ? "   ^ 


I2S 


PENi^EE, 


"  It  is  quite  true/'  said  Pens^e,  in  the  same  calm 
voice.  **  I  have  a  friend  at  the  prison ;  she  is  the 
wife  of  one  of  the  turnkeys — th^.-r  names  are  on  to- 
morrow's foum^e ;  you  know  they  take  the  prisoners 
in  batches  every  night  to  the  ConciergeAe,  and  then 
the  next  morning " 

"  I  know  but  too  well ;  we  see  them  pass  here 
every  day."  ;.  .  ,  , 

**  And  they  will  be  taken  to-morrow  night ;  let 
me  think — this  is  Wednesday — ah  !  then  it  will  be 
Friday  morning." 

Pensee  stopped,  then  she  went  on  quickly.  "M. 
I'Abb^,  will  you  promise  to  be  on  the  road  on  Friday 
morning  when  the  tumbrils  pass,  and  lift  your  hand 
for  absolution  for  their  last  consolation  ?" 

The  priest  groaned.  "  Ah,  yes,  indeed ;  if  it  must 
really  come  to  that ;  what  hopes  I  have  had  to  do 
something  for  them  !  but  God's  will  be  done.  Why- 
did  you  not  find  me  out  before  ? "  he  asked,  suddenly- 
turning  upon  her  ;  "  if  I  had  only  known  that  you 
had  a  friend  at  the  Luxembourg,  what  might  we  not 
ha-'e  done  for  them  ? " 

Pensee  looked  up  at  him  with  wide  f^ves — eyes 
which  looked  as  though  sleep  had  been  a  itranger  to 
them  for  many  nights.  "  I  have  been  trying  to  find 
you  for  the  past  month,"  she  said.  *'  I  have  walked 
all  over  Paris,  but  since  you  left  ycur  last  hiding- 
place  I  have  lost  you ;  now,  at  length,  just  in  time, 
I  find  you ;  God  guided  me,  but  oh  !  it  is  impossible 
to  save  them  !  all  is  impossible — all  but  one  thing." 


h 

€1 

S( 


g« 


w. 
in 
cr 
en 
It 


1 


PENSEE. 


129 


"And  what  is  that?" 

Pens^e  made  no  reply,  and  in  the  pause  a  step  was 
heard  on  the  stairs,  and  citoyen  Prdvot  put  his  head 
in  at  the  door. 

*'  I  think  your  visitor,  the  citoyenne,  had  better  go 
now,*'  he  said ;  "  there  is  a  search-' ng  party  in  the 
street,  and  who  knows  but  they  may  take  it  into  their 
heads  to  come  here  as  well  as  anywhere  else  ?  I 
have  brought  you  a  pestle  and  mortar,  for  you  to  be 
at  work  on  in  case  of  a  visit,"  he  said,  putting  them 
with  a  trembling  hand  before  the  Abbe,  and  van- 
ishing. 

"  You  must  go,  my  child ;  I  will  be  in  the  street 
without  fail  on  Friday.     Oh,  mon  Bien!  "     • 

"  I  will  tell  them  so,"  said  Pens^e. 

"  You  tell  them  so  ?  What  can  you  mean  ?  How 
can  you  communicate  with  them  ? " 

"  I  am  going  to  try,"  she  said,  standing  looking  at 
him  with  strange,  steady  eyes.  Then  she  knelt — 
"  Please  bless  mo,  M.  PAbbd." 

He  lifted  his  hands.  "My  child,  what  are  you 
going  to  do?"  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  appalled  by 
something  in  her  look.  But  in  a  moment  she  was 
gone. 

On  the  morrow  eveiiing,  an  hour  before  the  time 
when  the  list  of  those  v/ho  were  to  die  on  the  follow- 
ing day  was  read  at  the  prison  gates,  Pens^e  was 
crouching  by  what  appeared  to  be  a  disused  back 
entrance  to  the  Luxembourg  prison,  ci-devant  palace. 
It  was  about  dark.     She  had  waited  a  long  while, 

I 


»30 


PENSEE, 


when  at  1  st  a  footstep  was  heard  within,  and  a  key- 
began  to  grate  in  the  rusty  lock,  and  the  door  turned 
slowly  upon  its  hinges.  A  woman's  hei«d  looked 
out  as  Pens^e  sprang  to  her  feet. 

"You  are  there?"  said  a  voice  in  a  tremulous 
whisper.  "He  is  drunk,  and  fast  asleep ;  make 
haste,  I  am  half-dead  with  fear." 

"  Oh,  ray  good  friend  !  you  have  the  keys,  then  ?  " 
said  Pensee. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  be  quick,  my  girl,  for  God's  sake ;  I 
can  only  give  you  ten  minutes,  so  your  adieux 
must  be  short  ones  ;  this  is  as  much  as  my  head 
is  worth,  and  all  for  love  of  that  poor  madame 
aristocrate." 

**  God  will  reward  you,"  said  Pensee. 

They  had  hurried  through  several  corridors.  Now 
the  woman  stopped  before  a  door,  saying,  "  They  are 
together  in  there — ^your  sister  and  madame  ;  only  ten 
minutes,  then  I  must  come." 

Pensee  was  in  a  small  r;om,  where  by  the  light  of 
one  poor  candle  she  could  see  two  pale  faces  looking 
at  her  speechlessly,  as  though  she  were  a  visitant 
from  aiiother  world. 

"  Yes,  it  is  really  I,"  she  said,  standing  before 
ihem.  "Oh,  madame  !  oh,  Jeanne  !  your  names  are 
down  on  to-night's  fournee,  and  they  will  come  for 
you  directly  ;  there  is  no  time  to  lose.  But,  Jeanne, 
my  well-beloved,  you  are  not  going  to  die ;  listen  to 
me  now  attentively  ;  you  are  to  put  on  my  clothes, 
and  wrap  your  head  in  my  shawl ;   you  know  we 


PENSEE, 


13' 


re 
)r 


re 


are  of  the  same  height,  and  it  is  dark,  ^icbody  will 
see  the  difference  ;  the  turnkey's  wife  has  let  me  in  ; 
she  is  kind,  but  she  must  not  know  this — nobody 
will  know — only  trust  me,  my  beloved,  and  do  what 
I  say." 

While  she  had  been  speaking  she  had  unfastened 
her  peasant's  cap  and  shawl. 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu !  no,"  exclaimed  Madame  le 
Flaouet,  "  I  must  not  allow  this ;  my  child  will  die 
with  me." 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  no,"  Pensee  said,  "  she  will 
live,  but  be  quick  ;  oh,  be  quick  !  there  is  no  time  to 
w^asie." 

The  fair  wan  face  of  Jeanne  had  shrunk  away 
from  Pensee,  putting  up  her  hands  as  though  to 
ward  off  a  visible  temptation.  "  Oh,  I  cannot  !  " 
she  said.  But  after  that  first  moment  she  made  no 
further  resistance,  and  the  sweet  eyes  only  looked 
piteously  while  Pensee  dressed  her  in  the  peasant's 
dress,  shawl,  and  cap.  Both  she  and  Madame  le 
Flaouet  seemed  dazed,  and  Pensee,  with  that  steady 
resolve  in  her  eyes,  was  giving  her  directions. 

*•'  When  she  comes  for  me — you,  are  me,  you 
know,  but  you  need  not  speak ;  put  my  basket  on 
your  arm — and  if  any  one  speaks  to  you,  say  you 
are  a  citoyenne  who  sells  lemons,  and  go  straight  to 
that  street — "  she  said,  putting  a  paper  into  Jeanne's 
hand ;  "  it  is  the  Abbe  Martin's  address,  ho  will 
know  what  to  do,  and  farewell,  my  beloved,  God 
bless  thee." 


132 


PENSEE. 


m 


Madame  le  Flaoiiet  was  clinging  to  Jeanne,  then 
the  door  opened  again. 

"  Come,  come  quickly,"  said  the  voice  of  the  turn- 
key's -wife,  and  Jeanne,  with  the  shawl  wrapped 
round  her  head,  lier  eyes  looking  back  mutely  to 
them  both,  was  hurried  away  into  liberty  and  life. 

A  few  moments  later  the  tramp  of  men's  feet  was 
heard  :  "  the  foumec  !  "  From  the  different  rooms 
the  prisoners  flocked  out  to  the  prison  gate  to  hear 
the  list  of  the  condemned  read.  The  "widow  le 
Flaouet  and  her  daughter,"  were  two  of  the  first  on 
the  list.  Then,  with  the  rest,  they  were  hurried 
into  the  tumbril  and  taken  to  the  Conciergerie  for 
the  night. 

The  clocks  of  the  city  were  chiming  eight  on 
Friday  morning,  and  tht  death  carts  were  passing 
throiiQfh  the  streets  to  the  Place  de  la  llevolution. 
The  crisp  autumn  sunshine  lay  all  ah  out ;  the  day 
»vas  young,  life  was  young,  but  it  was  passing 
quickly. 

Pensee  was  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand  and 
looking :  these  trees  were  pretty,  with  the  pale 
autumn  gold  coming,  like  those  at  St.  Ydeuc  :  some 
people  with  baskets  were  doing  their  morning  shop- 
ping, and  these  were  standing  upon  the  pavement 
watching  them  ;  did  they  look  kind  ?  how  strange  it 
seemed  to  be  going  to  die — she  sat  with  clasped 
hands  and  looked  :  a  little  martyr  of  the  people, 
svi'^ept  ruthlessly  away  in  that  wild,  terrible  sweep  of 


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terrible  abuses.  For  some  reason  they  had  left  upon 
her  Jeanne's  dress  instead  of  the  red  Liberty  gown 
which  they  had  put  on  Madame  le  Flaouet :  it  was 
odd  to  be  dressed  like  an  aristocrat  ;  the  dress  had 
ruffles  at  the  neck  and  wrists  ;  it  was  all  white. 
Madame  le  Flaouet  sat  with  Pensee's  hand  lield  in 
hers  ;  she  was  seeing  a  cottage  garden  with  flowers 
growing,  and  two  fair  children  playing — and  saying 
•*  Will  you  come  to  me,  little  one  ? " — yet  it  was 
not  Jeanne,  but  Pens^e  who  had  come  to  die  with 
her. 

**  Look,  look,  my  child  ! "  she  said  suddenly. 

On  the  pavement's  edge  a  man  in  an  oiivriers 
dress  was  standing,  looking  up  at  them  with  an 
earnest  gaze ;  there  was  a  mist  between,  but  he 
lifted  his  right  hand :  tae  tumbril  rolled  on.  After 
that,  the  mist  seemed  to  ba  over  everything,  and  she 
saw  only  the  calvary  in  the  lane  at  St.  Ydeuc.  It 
was  easy  to  die,  all  the  martyrs  had  died,  and  heaven 
was  best :  life  was  sweet,  but  what  was  life  worth 
except  for  love  and  sacrifice  ?  Jeanne,  her  beloved, 
would  live.  Yet  that  great  public  Place,  and  the 
crowd,  and  the  soldiers,  and  that  tall  gaunt  thing 
witn  its  glittering  axe  against  the  fair  morning  sky, 
were  terrible. 

The  crowd  was  humming  all  round  :  then  came 
cruel  shouts — "  Vive  la  Republique,  death  to  aristo- 
crats !  "  Then  they  fell  away  into  a  dim  murmur, 
though  the  sky  was  there  still,  and  the  mist  fell :  a 
name  was   called — "  Le   Flaouet,    fille  I "    a  rough 


f 


136 


PENSiE. 


hand  seized  her,  she  looked  up — it  was  not  the  tall, 
gaunt  thing  any  more,  but  the  calvary  at  home,  and 
the  pitying  face  was  bending  down  to  her.  She 
went  up.  ,    :.    ;  :;  ;.      -■      ..      -.^ 

The  Abbe  Martin  helped  Jeanne  to  escape  from 
Paris,  and  when  the  troubles  of  the  Revolunon  were 
over,  she  returned  to  Le  Flaouet,  for  she  was 
Madame  le  Flaouet' s  sole  heiress.  She  brought  old 
Sidonie  to  live  there  as  a  sort  of  honoured  pen- 
sioner, but  it  may  be  doubted  if  she  was  ever  quite 
so  happy  as  in  the  old  granite  cottage  at  St.  Ydeuc. 

Jeanne  married  happily,  but  all  her  life  long  there 
rested  upon  the  fair  face  a  haunting  look  of  terror 
and  pain — a  shadow  of  some  great  sorrow.  » 

In  the  little  church  of  St.  Ydeuc  was  a  white 
marble  cross  with  a  crown  of  thorns  sculptured,  and 
Pens^e's  name :  Jeanne  used  to  visit  the  spot  at 
certain  seasons,  especially  on  one  day  in  the  month 
of  September. 

"It  is  so  strange,"  she  once  said  to  the  Cur^ 
looking  up  wistfully  with  that  haunting  look — "  the 
feeling  that  you  have  when  you  know  that  some  one 
has  died  for  you."  ^    -   7  l  ^      .     ' 


A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE, 


By  MICH;-  jIL  A.  MORRISON. 

N  the  right  bank  of  the  mighty  Volga, 
about  midway  between  the  towns  of  Sa- 
mara and  Saratott^  a  road  leads  away 
across  the  level  and  illimitable  steppe  to 
the  lonely  village  of  Sergeyevka.  In  dull 
November  weather  a  traveller  visiting  this 
region,  and  looking  only  for  the  suptrficially  pic- 
turesque, would  be,  perhaps,  depressed  by  the  dreary 
monotony  of  the  landscape — interminable  plains  of 
brown  grass,  yellow  stubble,  and  waste  land,  without 
a  house  or  tree,  without  even  a  telegraph  post  to 
break  the  dead  uniformity  of  nature  ;  but  if  he  were 
of  a  receptive  humour,  he  might  be  impressed  and 
interested  by  many  a  curious  glimpse  of  life.  He 
would  pass  an  occasional  Kalmyk  shepherd — queer, 
slant-eyed,  yellow-skinned  heathens,  trudging  along 


:  I 


138     A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE. 


% 


ii' 


the  road  in  their  greasy  sheepskins — perhaps  drag- 
ging a  camel  after  them ;  he  would  see  browsing  on 
the  stubble  flocks  of  goats — haggard,  weather-stained, 
and  venerable  beasts — the  very  goats  for  the  fore- 
ground of  some  brown  etching,  dark  with  the  passage 
of  storm  ;  and  as  he  approached  Sergeyevka  he  would 
notice  the  flaxen-haired  Russian  children  tending  the 
cattle ;  the  leafless  silver-stemmed  birches  round  the 
little  paddocks ;  the  young  poplars  and  the  willows 
beside  the  stream,  and  by  the  squat  houses  of  the 
peasants  ;  the  white-washed  church  with  its  sky-blue 
cupola  adorned  with  gilded  stars ;  the  bright  head- 
dresses of  the  women  and  girls,  over  their  sunburnt 
faces ;  and  the  old  men  and  hahui  sitting  at  the 
doors  of  their  cottages,  talking  the  everlasting  small- 
talk  of  the  village.  Interesting  enough  scenes  these 
for  him  who  delights  in  the  cortrast  of  juxtaposition 
between  what  is  familiar  and  what  is  remote  and 
stransje. 

Count  Pavl  Kirilitch  Levashoff  was  the  owner  of 
the  village  of  Sergeyevka,  the  great  man  of  the  dis- 
trict. If  the  villagers  were  asked  what  they  thought 
about  Pavl  Kirilitch  they  would  answer  by  saying 
that  he  was  a  tchudak,  a  queer  fellow,  and  would 
shrug  their  shoulders ;  but  when  pressed  for  fuller 
information  they  would  admit  that  they  knew  little 
or  nothing  about  him. ;  that  he  kept  himself  remote 
from  them  in  his  big  lonely  house  across  the  stream ; 
that  they  seldom  saw  him  ;  and  that  they  were  all 
afraid  of  the  sombre,  silent  man  whom  they  called 


A   '^AUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE.     139 


their  Barin.  They  had  no  love  for  him.  He  took 
his  dues,  and  evinced  no  interest  in  their  concerns. 
The  priest  and  the  schoolmaster  never  ventured  to 
approach  him  when  the  harvest  turned  out  badl}', 
and  they  wanted  help  to  ward  off  hunger  from  thu 
village.  He  had  come  to  Sergeyevka  to  live  five 
years  ago,  when  his  father  died — the  Lord  rest  his 
soul — people  said  from  Petersburg.  In  all  that  time 
he  had  never  left  the  village,  and  no  one  of  his 
former  friends  ever  visited  him — perhaps  he  had  no 
friends.  An  old  baha  kept  house  for  him,  and  Sim- 
yon  Andreitch  was  his  house-servant  and  steward  all 
in  one ;  but  never  a  word  would  he  speak  of  tlio 
Barin.  This  was  all  the  peasants  could  tell  about 
Pavl  Kirilitch.  . 

But  there  was  far  more  to  tell.  When  Pavl  Kiri- 
litch arrived  at  Sergeyevka  he  was  a  man  of  thirty — 
a  man  young  in  years.  But  he  was  broken  by  dissi- 
pation ;  a  ruined  wretched  creature,  who  had  wasted 
all  the  fortune  left  him  by  his  mother,  and  all  his 
father's  savings  as  well.  His  life  in  Petersburg  had 
been  so  strange  and  disgraceful,  that  all  his  relations 
had  quarrelled  with  him,  and  all  decent  people 
shunned  him.  Just  as  he  was  being  driven  out  of 
the  society  of  the  reprobates  he  frequented,  for  a 
fraud  ax,  cards  more  than  usually  flagrant,  his  father 
died ;  and  disgraced,  covered  with  contumely,  branded 
as  a  common  cheat,  ruined  in  pocket,  in  mind,  and 
in  body,  he  fled  to  Sergeyevka,  and  hid  himself  in 
shame — the  horror  of  the  memory  of  his  past  life 


* 


lU 


140     A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE, 

eating  out  his  heart,  and  bringing  him  to  the  verge 
of  madness.  \ 

Years  of  unutterable  misery  were  now  his  portion. 
The  memory  of  Avhat  he  had  been,  the  mordant 
thought  of  what  he  might  have  been,  the  ghosts  of 
past  crimes,  the  woful  career  of  sin  and  shame — all 
this  burdened  the  heart  of  Pavl  Kirilitch  with  a  load 
of  anguish,  from  which  he  vainly  sought  release. 
Only  one  friend  remained  to  him,  old  Simyon  the 
steward.  Every  one  else  fled  from  the  lowering  eyes 
that  could  only  express  hate  and  contempt ;  from  the 
man  whose  cynical  laugh,  cruel  speech,  and  storms  of 
ungovernable  fury  made  him  an  object  of  terror.  It 
was  this  faithful  servant  who  would  often  steal  into 
the  room  where  the  Bavin  was  lying,  face  downward, 
on  his  bed,  and  remove  his  revolver,  or  his  razor,  or 
his  rifle,  fearing  he  would  lay  violent  hands  on  him- 
self in  one  of  his  fits  of  passion ;  or  would  try  to 
still  him  as  he  would  a  child,  when  he  lay  moaning 
all  through  the  night  in  the  agony  of  his  mind.  Sim- 
yon Andreitch  never  heeded  the  hard  words  and  black 
looks  cast  at  him.  He  would  say  to  himself:  "The 
Barin  is  in  great  trouble ; "  or,  "  The  Barin  has  a 
heavy  cross  to  carry  to-day;"  or,  "The  Lord  is 
smiting  the  Barin  more  than  he  can  bear,  but  it  will 
all  come  right — vsye  hoodyet  khorosho.'* 
,  It  happened  during  one  of  the  Barings  "bad  days  '* 
that  old  Simyon  was  in  the  little  room  that  served 
him  as  office,  a  room  adjoiring  his  master's.  He 
heard   the   swift,   uneven   steps  of  the   conscience- 


A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE,     141 


stricken  man,  as  he  paced  his  room  like  a  caged 
animal,  and  he  wished  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
that  he  possessed  a  salve  to  heal  wounds  that  could 
cause  such  unending  anguish.  But  he  noticed  that 
Pavl  Kirilitch's  movements  gradually  became  slower 
and  more  regular,  until  at  last  he  stopped  in  front 
of  a  small  cabinet.  Simyon  Andreitch  rose,  and 
through  the  slightly  opened  door  he  saw  his  master 
take  from  one  of  the  drawers  of  the  cabinet  an  old 
flute  that  had  lain  there  unused  ever  since  they  came 
to  Sergeyevka,  and  wet  it  preparatory  to  playing. 
Pavl  Kirilitch  sat  down  on  his  bed  and  began  to 
play  an  old  Russian  melody  that  all  the  peasants  of 
the  Volga  know — that  he  must  have  learnt  when  he 
was  a  child,  long  before  he  went  out  into  the  world — 
a  song  about  the  rising  sun.  And  as  he  plai^'ed  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  haggard  cheeks.  Starting  up 
suddenly,  he  broke  into  peal  after  peal  of  horrible 
laughter,  and,  dashing  the  flute  into  the  burning 
stove,  he  sank  on  the  floor,  sobbing  as  though  his 
heart  would  break.  The  old  steward  crept  into  the 
room,  and  strove  to  soothe  the  stricken  man ;  but 
for  many  a  day  after  Pavl  Kirilitch  was  as  one 
dazed,  as  one  from  whom  all  consciousness  had  fled  ; 
silent,  motionless,  without  either  hope  or  passion  of 
spirit. 

Leaving  the  old  haha  in  charge  of  his  sick  master, 
Simyon  Andreitch  one  morning  crossed  the  stream 
into  the  village,  on  some  business  connected  with  the 
estate.     He  was  feeling  sore  at  heart  about  the  Bavin, 


141      A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE. 


revolving  many  things  in  his  mind,  thinking  what 
could  be  done  to  alle\iate  the  sufferings  of  the  lonely 
and  heartbroken  man.  As  he  drew  near  to  Serg^- 
yevka  he  noticed  one  of  the  village  lads,  perched  on 
top  of  a  ruined  wall,  singing,  and  playing  an  accom- 
paniment on  the  roughly  made  mandolin  so  often 
seen  in  the  hands  of  the  Russian  peasantry.  Simyon 
A.ndreitch  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  tho  melody 
itself,  or  the  way  in  M'hich  it  was  sung,  that  fascinated 
him.  He  recognised  it  as  the  same  simple  air  that  the 
BaHn  had  played  on  the  flute ;  but  it  was  sung  with 
so  sweet  a  voice,  and  the  coarsely  made  instrument 
was  touched  with  so  skilful  a  hand,  that  the  old  man 
stopped  in  wonder  to  regard  the  boy  closer. 

An  inspiration  flashed  into  Simyon  Andreitch's 
mind  :  '*  I  shall  have  that  boy  up  to  the  house  to 
play  for  Pavl  Kirilitch.  I'll  have  him  up  this  even- 
ing, and  he'll  :it  in  my  room,  and  I'll  open  the  door 
a  little  so  that  the  Sarin  may  hear  him."  Then, 
turning  to  the  boy,  "  Meesha,  little  sonny,  I  want 
you  to  come  over  to  the  house  this  evening  to  sing 
me  that  song."  And  Meesha  consented  to  go,  pro- 
vided Simyon  Andreitch  would  not  let  the  Barin 
see  him. 

At  evening,  Meesha  and  the  old  steward  were 
sitting  together  in  the  little  ofiice,  and  the  BaHn  sat 
in  his  chair  before  tho  fire  sadly  watching  the  dying 
embers.  Meesha  was  not  at  his  ease  so  near  the 
Barin,  but  nevertheless,  when  Simyon  Andreitch 
whispered  to  him  to  sing,  he  took  up  his  old  man- 


,,  ■      ♦, 


A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE.      143 

dolin,  and  all  his  innocent  confidence  returned  as  he 
sang  the  quaint  little  peasant  song  : — 

•'  The  sun  is  God's  lamp  in  the  sky ; 
And  its  light  streams  around  us  all  day. 
We  rejoice  as  w^j  work,  as  wo  play. 

"  There  are  stars  and  the  pale  moon  on  high, 
When  the  night  closes  round  us  at  rest ; 
And  His  lump  has  gone  down  in  the  West. 

* '  The  dear  Lord  with  His  care  ever  nigh, 
Sends  us  all,  gives  us  all,  in  large  store ; 
And  is  waiting  to  bless  us  with  more." 

The  voice  .of  the  singer  was  the  voice  of  an  angel, 
and  the  sick  Bavin  heard  it,  and  listened,  and  gave 
a  deep  sigh  when  the  song  was  finished.  Then  he 
rose  and  closed  the  door  into  the  steward'^  room, 
and  both  Meesha  and  Simyon  Andreitch  thought 
they  heard  him  weep.  And  when  Meesha  saw  that 
Simyon  Andreitch  was  also  weeping,  he  stole  away 
to  his  own  home,  and  thought  it  all  over  to  himself, 
and  wondered. 

Next  evening,  at  the  steward's  request,  little 
Meesha  again  appeared  at  the  great  house.  All  his 
dread  of  the  Bavin  had  somehow  vanished.  When 
Pavl  Kirilitch  heard  the  first  fingerings  of  the  man- 
dolin, he  cried  out,  **  Send  that  boy  here."  And 
Meesha  entered  the  room  where  sat  the  tortured 
man,  who  was  passing  through  the  valley  of  humilia- 
tion, and  wrestling  with  the  demon  of  remorse. 

"  Sing  that  song  beginning,  *  The  sun  is  God's 
lamp."* 

Meesha  sang  it. 


'«: 


\ 


144     A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE, 


It 


Have  you  any  more  songs?'*    - 
Meesha  smiled,  "  Many." 
"  Sing  another." 

Then  the  child  struck  some  chords,  and  sang  one 
of  the  sweetest  of  the  Rubsinn  folk  songs  : — 

"  O  rich  black  earth,  all  streaked  with  snow, 
On  cloudy  April  morning  ; 
The  green  headlands,  ths  fresh-turned  row  ; 
Young  leaves  the  trees  adorning. 

* '  Spring,  spring  on  earth,  in  sky,  in  air  ; 
Spring  that  will  ever  waken 
The  saddest  heart  sunk  in  despair, — 
Thinking  itself  forsaken. 

"  Spring !    We  will  sing  thy  praise  indeed, 
And  bless  thy  welcome  coming ; 
And  raise  our  hearts  for  ever  freed 
From  winter's  drear  benumbing."       I 

Pavl  Kirilitch  leaned  forward,  and  with  his  two 
hands  drev/  the  boy's  head  close  to  him,  looking  long 
and  fixedly  with  his  stormy,  heavy  eyes  on  the  bright 
and  fearless  young  face.  Then  he  passed  his  great 
hand  slowly  through  Meesha's  auburn  curls,  gazing 
wistfully;  and  still  closer  he  drew  the  boy*s  head, 
and  kissed  his  lips.  Meepha  loved  the  Barin,  and 
sank  on  his  knees  beside  him. 

''Your  name  is  Meesha ;  isn't  it?  Come  to-mor- 
row, Meesha  " — and  the  man's  voice  was  hoarse,  and 
choked  and  broken — "  but,  before  you  go,  sing  me 
cno  more  song,  Meesha,  Meeshurka."  — 

Meesha  rose.  He  was  solemnised  by  the  strange 
scene  through  which  he  was  passing.  He  remembered 


A  SAUL  AND  DAVID  OF  THE  STEPPE.      145 

that  when  he  hist  his  mother  a  year  ago,  the  school- 
master, whom  he  loved,  came  to  his  father's  izha  and 
sang  some  beautiful  w^crds,  which  he  afterwards 
taught  him.  Meesha  remembered  how  the  school- 
master's song  had  cheered  him  in  his  sorrow,  and  lie 
thought  that  if  the  Sarin  is  in  great  trouble,  perhaps 
it  might  do  hir.  good  also. 

So  Meesha  sang — his  great  blue  eyes  wide  open 
and  gazing  intently  at  the  Bavin : — 

**  When  the  Lord  turned  again  the  captivity  of  Zion,  we  saw  as  in  a 
dream.  Then  our  mouth  was  filled  with  rejoicing,  and  our  tongue 
with  Bong.  Then  said  they  among  the  nations  :  The  Lord  hath  done 
great  things  for  us  ;  we  rejoiced.  Turn  back,  O  Lord,  our  captivity, 
as  the  streams  at  noonday.  Those  that  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap  in 
joy.  Sowing  in  tears  the  seed,  he  shall  return  with  joy,  bearing  the 
sheaves."  • 

These  are  the  grand  old  words  sung  by  the  Kussian 

boy :  and  as  he  sang,  sunlight  entered  the  soul  of 

Pavl  Kirilitch.     His  captivity  was  turned ;  and  his 

stony  heart,  so    long   filled   with   hatred,  with   the 

memory  of  sin,  began  diffidently  to  hope  that  there 

was  perhaps  a  place  of  repentance  for  him,   if  he 

sought  it  carefully  through  tears  and  humiliation  and 

prayer. 

*  Translated  from  the  ancient  Slavooio, 


K 


.'j,.7'^7''^''*j^gv"^i. 


¥»*'irtvfHiiiMp^tmm 


THE  MAN  FKOM  THE  FOUE  COENEKS. 


By  G.  B.  BURGIN. 


I. 


7:  AL,  oharles  Henry,  I  brought  you  inter 
the  world,  an*  I'm  mighty  feared  thar's 
no  sendin'  of  you  back  agin,"  said  Mrs. 
Henry  Hawkins  in  tones  which  beto- 
kened anything  but  Christian  resignation. 
"  Thar's  some  burdens  sorter  piled  onter 
us — burdens  of  shiftless  critters  like  you — thar's  no 
gittin  over — burdens  which  stick  closer  than  a  chest- 
nut shuck,  an'  is  about  as  wearin'." 

"  I'm  one-and-twenty,  mother,"  returned  Charles 
Henry,     "and    I    hanker    after    seein'    the    world, 

and " 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  said  his  mother  ; — "  don't  tell 
me  what  you're  hankerin'  after.  I  know  'ithout  any 
tellin'.  It's  the  fleshpots  you've  got  your  eye  on. 
The  fleshpots  of  Egypt!     That's  what  you're  after. 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     147 


You're  about  as  fit  as  a  spring  chicken  is  to  see  the 
world.  Jest  about  as  fit  to  come  up  to  the  scratch, 
you  poor  innocent.  You  quit  this  foolishness,  an* 
set  to  work  sawin'  wood.  *i  hat's  what  Nature  meant 
you  to  do,  an'  if  you  go  agin  Nature,  she'll  git  even 
with  you,  you  bet  your  bottom  dollar.  Thar's  a  deal 
of  solid  religion  in  sawin'  wood,  'specially  when  it 
ain't  dry." 

Charles  Henry  jingled  his  pocket  suggestiv^ely.  It 
was  full  of  dollars.  Then  he  walked  to  the  window 
and  gazed  at  the  mighty  Ottawa.  "  I'm  sick  of  this 
old  hen-roost,"  he  said  irritably,  with  a  look -of  defi- 
ance in  his  ordinarily  mild  blue  eye. 

Mrs.  Henry  Hawkins  reached  over  and  jerked  him 
back  to  the  breakfast- table.  "  Whiles  you're  in  this 
hen-roost,  Charles  Henry,"  she  said  in  tones  which 
did  not  ixdmit  of  dispute — "  whiles  you're  in  this 
hen-roost,  I  calculate  you'll  have  to  finish  up  the 
provender  set  before  you  by  the  old  hen  that  runs  it." 

Charles  Henry  meekly  went  on  with  his  break- 
fast, but  there  was  an  obstinate  look  in  the  youth's 
face  as  he  did  so.  Mrs.  Henry  Hawkins  waited  until 
he  had  finished,  and  then  severely  eyed  him  once 
more. 

"It  ain't  no  good,  mother,"  said  Charles  Henry. 
"  It  ain't  no  good.  It's  time  for  me  to  go  forth  out 
of  the  wilderness,  so  to  speak,  and  have  my  little 
whack.  I  want  to  see  what's  goin'  on  in  the  world, 
I  do."         • 

"  You  want  to  see  what's  goiii'  on  in  the  world ! 


148     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 

Most  people  wants  t^  oniit  their  eyes  to  what's  goin' 
on  in  the  world.  You  let  the  world  alone,"  said  his 
mother.  "  It's  been  tumblin'  about  a  good  many 
years  'ithout  your  help.  I  reckon  your  head's  turned 


I  H  BICX   OF  THJ8  OLD  B£K-KOOST. 


jest  because  your  uncle  Jabez  left  you  that  four  hun- 
dred dollars." 

Charles  Henry  again  jingled  his  pocket. 
•     "  Wal,"  said  the  old  lady,  ^ith  subdued  irony,  "  I 


THE  MAN  FROM  TttE  FOVR  CORNERS.     149 


reckon  it's  too  much  for  you.  You're  off  your  base. 
You  want  to  go  an'  mingle  with  the  fleshpots  an' 
painted  Isabels  an'  fleetin'  joys  of  this  world,  an' 
spend  all  your  money  an'  then  come  back  like  the 
prodigy  son.  But  you  may  jest  make  up  your  mind, 
Charles  Henry,  jest  as  sure  as  you're  born  (I'm  sure 
I  don't  know  where  Providence  located  your  mind — 
what  thar  is  of  it),  thar'll  be  precious  little  veal  on 
the  premises  for  you  when  you  git  tired  of  runnin' 
free,  an'  comes  crawlin'  home  full  of  husks  after  the 
man  .er  of  the  Scripters." 

"  I  never  was  great  on  veal,"  said  Charles  Henry 
indifferently.  "  Not  me !  It's  no  use,  mother.  I'm 
_dke  the  birds  when  the  cold  snap  starts — I've  got  to 
get  out." 

"  A  jay  bird's  the  only  sort  of  bird  you're  like," 
returned  his  strong-minded  parent.  "  You're  jest  fit 
to  sit  OP  a  bough  and  screech,  an'  git  other  birds  to 
lay  your  own  eggs  for  you." 

Charles  Henry  had  never  before  asserted  himself. 
Now,  he  had  money  in  his  pouch  ;  and  when  a  man 
has  money  in  his  pouch — especially  a  man  of  one- 
and- twenty — he  is  bound  to  assert  himself.  "  Look 
here,  mother,"  he  said  deliberately,  "you've  cooped 
me  up  all  my  life.  I  haven't  even  been  down  on  a 
raft  to  Montreal.  The  boys  in  Millar's  store  are 
always  flinging  it  at  me.  I  might  be  a  chipmunk 
under  a  tree  for  all  the  good  I  get  out  of  life.  I 
can't  keep  still.  I've  got  to  move  on.  I  want  to  see 
things  for  myself.     What's  it  matter  if  I  spend  the 


'li 
^'11 


n 


m 


ISO     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS, 

money  ?  What's  anything  matter  ?  D'you  want  me 
to  die  because  I'm  sick  of  things  ?  I  hear  voices 
calling  me  away  into  the  world — the  great,  glorious 
world  yonder  beyond  this  little  village.  I  want  to 
see  it,  taste  it,  to  find  out  what  it's  like  ;  and  then 
I'll  settle  down  and  saw  wood  and  do  chores,  but 
I'm  blamed  if  I'm  going  to  do  it  till  I've  had  my 
little  whack." 

"Go  on,"  said  his  mother  grimly.  "Go  on, 
Charles  Henry.  Have  your  little  whack !  Heap 
dust  an'  wood  ashes  on  your  sorrowin'  parent." 

"  I  don't  want  to  heap  wood  ashes  on  anybody," 
said  the  literal  Charles  Henry.  "  But  can't  you 
understand  ?  I  feel  like  a  sugar  maple  when  the  sap 
begins  to  rise,  and " 

"  Thar's  precious  little  sugar  in  you,  Charles  Henry. 
Precious  little.  An'  if  you  go  away  you'll  be  bled 
like  a  sugar  maple.  That's  what'll  happen  to  you, 
my  son." 

"  Well,"  said  Charles  Henry  indifferently,  **  what's 
it  matter  ? " 

Mrs.  Hawkins  was  staggered.  "You're  past  pray- 
ing for,"  she  ejaculated.  "  A  whole  mourners'  bench 
couldn't  save  you." 

Charles  Henry  asserted  himself.  His  tones  were 
those  of  repressed  passion.  "  You  let  me  go  my  own 
way,  mother.  I  daresay  it's  all  true.  But  you  can't 
understand — you  can't  understand.  I  must  see  it  all. 
I  want  to  go  to  London  and  have  a  look  round  and 
get  it  all  fixed." 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     151 


., 


"  Oh,  you'll  git  fixed,"  said  the  old  lady.  "You'll 
git  fixed  in  a  police  barracks.  That's  where  you'll 
bring  up." 

"  Let  me  start,  mother,"  the  youth  pleaded.  "  I'll 
have  to.  It's  in  my  blood.  I'll  go  mad  if  I  don't. 
I  see  it  all — feel  it — hear  it.  Dream  of  it  nights.  I 
must  see  what  it's  like.  I'll  come  back  again,  mother. 
I'll  come  back.  But  I  must  go.  It's  a  living  grave 
here." 

Mrs.  Henry  Hawkins  gazed  out  of  the  window  on 
the  swollen  Ottawa  as  it  thundered  past.  A  patch  or 
two  of  snow  betokened  that  vvinter  had  barelv  fled 
behind  the  mountains  on  the  opposite  shore.  But 
the  sun  blazed  fiercely  out  upon  the  little  Canadian 
village,  gay  with  glittering  tin  spires  and  brightly- 
hued  wooden  houses.  Most  of  the  inhabitants  were 
making  up  their  gardens  for  the  summer.  The 
pc^ato-bug,  clad  in  a  triple  mail,  which  had  with- 
stood the  fierce  frost  of  winter,  perched  upon  the 
cedar  rails  and  sunned  himself  until  returning  life 
warmed  his  airy  wings,  "^'i^-:..  was  a  hum  in  the 
air  of  newly-born  mosquitoes  seeking  whom  they 
might  devour.  The  grass  sprang  greenly  by  the  road- 
side or  along  the  edges  of  the  little  creek  where 
booming  batrachians  bellowed  forth  their  tale  of  love 
to  coy  fair  ones  half  buried  in  the  mud.  Here  and 
there  a  rooster,  his  comb  scarred  and  frost-bitten, 
strutted  proudly  up  and  down  or  flapped  his  wings 
and  crowed  defiance  to  the  world — that  world  which 
Charles  Henry  found  too  cramped   for  his   wants. 


f 


152     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 


Habitants,  driving  brightly-bedizened  ponies,  dashed 
through  the  village  or  thronged  into  the  stores  with 
the  first  eggs  of  the  season.  The  sky  was  a  brilliant 
cloudless  blue.  The  tall  elms  which  lined  the  village 
road  had  burst  into  buds  in  a  single  night.  Winter 
had  taken  his  stern  grip  from  the  throat  of  all  things. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  summer  in  the  air,  a  rustle 
amid  the  growing  grasses,  the  arrowy  flight  of  myriad 
swallows  over  the  oofs  of  the  houses,  the  bickeri  ig 
of  innocent  robins  as  they  flew  about  laden  ^.vith 
straws  and  twigs  for  their  nests.  Over  all,  was  the 
wi^.d  sweet  joy  of  the  sun- warmed  air ;  and  away  in 
the  distance  the  mighty  trees  of  the  Bush  showed 
greenly  against  a  grim  background  of  mountain. 
The  world  was  agog  with  life.  Pulses  quickened,  the 
unutterable  joy  of  it  filled  every  heart — every  heart 
save  those  of  Charles  Henry  and  his  irate  parent. 

"  Wal,"  said  the  old  lady,  in  answer  to  Charles 
Henry's  last  remark  (her  glance  fell  lingeringly  upon 
the  wide  expanse  of  river  and  then  turned  to  the 
mountain  beyond),  "if  this  is  the  place  you  last  men- 
tioned, 1  kin  stand  a  good  deal  of  it.  But  here's 
Phenisby  Anne.  Come  in,  Phenisby  Anne,  and  stop 
his  foolishness." 

A  young  girl  entered  the  room  and  stood  carelessly 
swinging  her  sun  bonnet  by  itp  '^/ofings.  She  was 
splendidly  handsome ;  as  vigorous  as  a  panther ; 
with  dark  hair  coiled  in  a  glorious  mass  of  ebon  light 
and  shade  at  the  back  of  her  firmly  modelled  head. 
Her  blue  eyes  gazed  questioningly  at  Charles  Henry 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     153 


I 


as  he  stood  still  jingling  his  dollais.  Charles  Henry  did 
not  look  at  her  again.  There  was  that  within  Phe- 
nisby  Anne's  eye  which  was  not  meant  for  him  to 
see  until  he  deserved  to  see  it.  She  was  clad  in  a 
pretty  blue  woollen  dress,  and  looked  about  twenty. 
In  addition,  she  stood  three  inches  taller  than  Chiirles 
Henry,  and  could  have  lifted  him  up  with  one  of  her 
large,  beautifully-shaped  hands. 

Phenisby  Anne  leaned  againut  the  door-post,  her 
face  paling  a  little  as  she  realised  the  situation.  "  You 
needn't  tell,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Hawkins.  "  He's  got 
the  fidgets  again.     He'll  have  to  go." 

Mrs.  Hawkins  looked  surprised.  She  had  reckoned 
on  an  ally. 

"  Yes,"  said  Phenisby  calmly  ;  "  it's  no  use  stop- 
ping him,  Mrs.  Hawkins.  Let  him  go.  He'll  be 
glad  enough  to  come  back  again." 

Charles  Henry  did  not  meet  Phenisby's  eye. 

"  Wal,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins  resignedly,  *'  if  you 
say  it,  Phenisby,  I  s'pose  he'll  hev  to  go.  Don't  cry 
out  about  it  afterwards  when  he's  seen  some  one  else. 
Hasn't  he  said  anything  to  you  yet,  Phenisby?  " 

The  girl's  cheek  flamed  for  a  moment.  She  drew 
herself  up  with  a  superb  gesture.  "If  he  sees  any 
one  he  likes  better  than  me,"  she  said,  "  he's  wel- 
come to."  There  was  a  touch  of  scorn  in  her  voice 
which  roused  Charles  Henry.  What  his  mother's 
reproaches  could  not  effect,  Phenisby  Anne  had  done 
in  a  second.  "  If  you  want  me  to  stay,"  he  said, 
humbly    approaching    her,  as   the    sunlight    played 


154-  THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 

upon  her  hair — "If  you  want  me  to  stay,  I'll  do  it, 
Phenisby." 

There  was  an  air  of  pathetic  entreaty  in  Mrs.  Haw- 
kins' iron-featured  face.  The  girl  hesitated  for  a 
moment.  Then  she  laughed  low  and  musically,  dis- 
playing splendid  teeth  as  she  did  so.  She  threw  out 
her  arm  with  a  gesture  of  renunciation.  "  When  I 
want  you  it  will  be  easy  enough  to  come  after  you. 
Go  and  see  the  world,  Cliarles  Henry  Hawkins.  You 
won't  find  anything  like  me  in  it." 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  Charles  Henry  fared  forth 
from  the  Four  Corners  with  four  hundred  dollars  in 
his  pocket,  and  a  gripsack  on  his  back.  A  procession 
of  fellow-townsmen  escorted  him  to  the  wharf,  and 
one  old  lady  gave  him  a  bottle  of  raspberry  vinegar 
as  a  remody  against  sea-sickness.  Charles  Henry 
tried  it  in  mid- Atlantic  but  preferred  the  sea-sickness. 
Phenisby  Anne  declined  to  see  him  off.  "  You've 
got  to  go,"  she  said,  "and  have  your  little  whack, 
and  get  it  over.  Good-bye."  And  then  she  dis- 
appeared. She  disapproved  of  Charles  Henry's  tour, 
but  knew  that  it  was  inevitjable.  "Our  distin- 
guished fellow-townsman,"  said  the  Four  Corners 
News — "  Our  distinguished  fellow-townsman,  before 
leading  Miss  Pheni'=by  Anne  Jenkins  to  the  hymeneal 
altar,  is  about  to  make  the  European  tour.  We  con- 
gratulate him  on  this  opportunity  of  conversing  with 
the  crowned  heads  of  Europe,  and  setting  them  right 
as  to  the  Annexation  ^question.  We  don't  want  to 
annex  the  United  States.     We've  enough  to  do  to 


, 


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t 


9 
I: 


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If 


M 


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THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     157 

keep  our  own  politicians  straight.  It  is  an  oppor- 
tunity which  is  rarely  afforded  to  our  fellow-citizens 
of  acquiring  the  je  ne  aais  quoi,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of 
English  culture.  We  shall  await  the  home-coming 
of  Mr.  Hawkins  with  much  interest,  and  love  him 
for  the  dangers  he  has  passed.  We  understand  that 
Mr.  Hawkins  is  under  vow  to  return  in  three  months* 
time.  *  When  the  robins  nest  again,  and  we  gather 
in  the  grain,'  we  shall  expect  him — expect  him  full 
to  the  brim  and  running  over,  not  with  the  lightning- 
rod  whiskey,  the  distillation  of  which  so  disgraces 
this  fair  land  of  the  maple  and  beaver,  but  with  the 
elegance  and  accumulated  wisdom  of  that  little  isle 
beyond  the  seas  to  which  we  Canadians  owe  our 
being.  We  wish  the  young  man  well,  especially  as 
he  has  subscribed  to  our  justly-renowned  organ  for 
three  months  in  advance.' 

But  after  Charles  Henry  had  departed,  Phenisby 
Anne's  assumed  composure  gave  way.  She  flung 
herself  into  Mrs.  Hawkins'  arms  and  wept  bitterly. 
"  Why  did  you  let  him  go  if  you  sot  such  store  on 
him  ?  "  asked  the  old  lady,  dissembling  her  delight. 
"  He's  that  stubborn,  he's  bound  to  get  into  mischief, 
an*  then  we'll  have  to  fool  round  an*  fetch  him  out 
of  it.  He's  promised  to  write  to  me  where  he's 
stayin'.  If  he  ain't  back  on  time,  you  know  me, 
Phenisby  Anne  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Phenisby  Anne,  drying  her  splendid 
eyes.       ' 

"  Wal,  we'll  jest   take  after  him,  an'  fetch   him 


iS8     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS, 

back,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  with  grim  determination, 
"  He's  the  only  son  of  my  old  age,  an'  his  mother's  a 
widow,  an'  ain't  going  to  put  up  with  all  this  high- 
toned  squanderin'  an'  little  whackin'." 

"  But,  if  he  won't  come  ? "  asked  Phenisby. 

"  Then  I'll  yank  him  on  board  the  steamer,"  said 
Mrs.  Hawkins  defiantly,  ' '  an'  tote  him  home  before 
he  can  say  '  shucks.'  " 

But  the  weeks  and  the  months  went  by.  One,  two, 
tb-'ee  months.  Charles  Henry  made  no  sign  after 
having  once  written  to  state  that  he  was  revelling, 
metaphorically  speaking,  in  the  fleshpots  of  the  old 
world.  Mrs.  Hawkins  sent  for  Phenisby.  "  Pack 
your  trunk  an'  git  ready  to  start  to-morrow,"  she 
said.  "  It's  time  this  hankerin'  after  fleshpots  was 
put  an  end  to."     And  Phenisby  Anne  made  ready. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  had  never  been  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships  before.  She  was  dismayed  for  a  moment  by 
the  upheaval  of  the  waters.  "  Does  it  allers  keep  a 
wabbl:n'  up  an'  down  like  this  ? "  she  asked  the 
steward. 

"Yes,  madam,"  replied  that  functionary,  as  the 
frowning  citadels  cf  Quebec  faded  away  in  the  dis- 
tance, and  a  few  gulls  wheeled  with  wild  and  piercing 
cries  rour-  the  vessel's  stately  sides. 

"Wal,  aen,  I  ain't  got  no  use  for  it.  Tell  the 
stewardess  to  make  me  some  catnip  tea,  and  call  me 
when  we  git  thar,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins  firmly,  and 
retired  to  her  cabin  prepared  for  the  worst. 

Over  the  sorrows  that  ensued,  Mrs.  Hawkins  loved 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     159 

to  dwell  in  after-years.  "  What  was  it  like  ?  "  she 
retorted  to  an  inquiring  Christian  friend.  "  What 
W£cs  it  like  ?  Wal,  you  know  how  it  is  when  you 
vant  to  git  religion  an'  can't  throw  up  Satan,  try 
all  you  can  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said  the  friend  expectantly. 
"  Wal,"  said  Mrs.  Hawkins,  "  I  was  wrestlin'  to  throw 
up  Satan  the  whole  way  thar  an"  back,  an'  Satan  got 
ahead  of  me." 


II. 


Charles  Henry  roused  himself  from  his  couch, 
and  gazed  apprehensively  at  the  grey,  grimy  dawn, 
as  it  streaked  in  through  the  tattered  blinds  of  his 
simply-furnished  garret.  With  Spartan  manliness  he 
had  refrained  from  decking  that  apartment — he  had 
but  one — with  costly  triumphs  of  the  upholsterer's 
art.  The  bedstead  was  of  iron,  and  supported  a 
flock  mattress  with  a  painful  tendency  to  knobbiness. 
The  wind  whistled  shrilly  up  through  the  carpetless 
floor.  A  three-legged  chair  without  a  back,  a  wash- 
handstand  of  deal,  in  whose  coy  embrace  reposed  a 
cracked  basin  which  had  evidently  seen  better  days, 
and  a  dissipated-looking  deal  table  comprised  the 
somewhat  unornamental  surroundings  with  which  he 
had  been  compelled  to  content  himself,  ictuated  by 
a  desire  to  pass  his  enforced  leisure  in  artistic  pur- 
suits, Charles  Henry  had  himself  designed  the  mural 
decorations  of  his  apartment  with  a  piece  of  charcoal. 


---n 


t 


1 60     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 

The  most  striking:  feature  in  the  scheme  of  decoration 
was  an  effigy  of  Charles  Henry,  suspended  from  a 
branch  of  lofty  pine  by  a  hempen  rope.  Underneath 
this  motionless  figure  were  written  the  words,  in 
Charles  Henry's  characteristic  handwriting  : 

"  Charles  Henry  HaivJdns.     Born  1st  of 
April,  1871. 
Did  for  himself  1st  April,  1892. 
He  ivas  a  DUM  FOOir 

Charles  Henry  got  out  of  bed  and  surveyed  the 
effigy  with  grim  satisfaction.  As  he  gazed,  his  stern- 
ness relaxed  and  a  humorous  twinkle  took  its  place. 
"  Well,"  he  said  with  a  sigh,  "  I've  had  a  bully  time, 
and  no  mistake.  Westminster  Abbey,  Houses  of  Par- 
liament, Buckingham  Palace,  and  the  Tower — all  the 
places  I've  read  of  at  school — seen  'em  all.  They've 
been  waiting  for  me  ever  since  they  were  built,  and 
I've  seen  'em.  What  did  I  want  to  go  and  play 
cards'  for  with  confidence  men  and  bunko  steerers, 
and  dissipate  my  substance — four  hundred  dollars — 
in  riotous  living  ?  I  dunno.  I  'spose  it  was  part  of 
the  time.  But  I  ain't  got  a  red  cent  left.  And  I've 
had  nothing  to  eat  'cept  an  orange  for  two  days.  I 
can't  live  on  Buckingham  Palace  and  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  chew  a  slice  out  of  the  Tower.  No,  sir, 
I've  got  to  get  something  to  eat,  or  peg  out.  I  can't 
cable  mother  because  nobody  will  lend  me  the  money. 
Wonder  if  there  is  anything  I  can  pawn  ? " 

He  felt  his  pockets  in   a  perfunctory  way  as  if 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS,     ibi 


knowiiiGf  what  the  result  must  be.  "  Waistcoat  went 
last  week,"  he  said,  addressing  the  effigy.  "  Last 
week.  What  am  I  to  do  now  ?  There's  a  good  deal 
in  that  Prodigal  Son  business  of  mother's.  I  reckon 
I'm  emptier  than  he  ever  felt.  But  I  have  had  a 
good  time." 

He  dipped  his  curly  head  in  a  basin  of  water,  and 
looked  round  for  his  boots.  They  were  not  to  be 
seen.  "I  couldn't  have  pawned  them  in  my  sleep," 
he  said,  staggering  against  the  wall.  "  I'm  begin- 
ning to  see  double.  Wouldn't  mother  crow  over  me 
if  she  could  see  me  now  ?  " 

Suddenly  his  face  brightened.  "  I  promised  her 
to  fjet  back  a  month  ao^o,  and  she  said  if  I  didn't 
turn  up  on  time  she'd  come  and  fetch  me.  Wonder 
if  she'll  do  it.  She'll  have  to  come  quick  or  there 
won't  be  enough  of  me  to  make  a  shadow." 

He  fell  to  counting  the  days.  "  She'd  give  me  a 
week  extra  or  a  fortnight,  .ind  then  rear  up  and  come 
straight  along,"  said  Charles  Henry  reflectively.  "  Oh, 
yes,  she'll  come.  But  how  am  I  to  get  along  now  ? 
I've  been  to  the  Canadian  consul,  ami  he  wouldn't  do 
anything.  Suppose  I  try  the  editor  of  Montreal 
Scraps.  He's  got  an  offic  '  down  Fleet  Street,  for  I 
passed  it  in  my  pride  on  i  car  one  day.  My !  IM 
give  anything  for  a  good  breakfast.  It's  a  dreadful 
thing  to  be  hungry  and  have  all  your  internal  arrange- 
ments crying  out  for  work.  Let  me  see.  I'd  begin 
with  hash  and  coffee,  and  wind  up  with  biscuits  and 
mnple "syrup  and  buckwheat  cakes,  with  a  few  eggs, 


i.t 


if 
if 


■iy 


iiiimiliipja 


\m 


I  ' 


III 


162     THE  MAAT  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 

and  a  hunk  of  cold  venison,  and  some  fowl,  and 
cranberry  jam  and  cream  to  finish.  Then  I'd  begin 
all  over  again.  And  then  ?  Well,  then  I'd  try  a 
fresh  lot." 

Charles  Henry  licked  his  lips  in  anticipation.  They 
felt  hot  and  dry.  He  drank  a  tumbler  of  water,  but 
it  made  him  shiver.  Then  he  looked  round  for  his 
boots,  and  some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

Charles  Henry  reeled  slightly  as  he  opened  the 
door.  "  It's  you,  is  it? "  he  said  to  the  grimy  "slavey," 
a  girl  of  about  sixteen,  with  tangled  red  hair,  and  a 
profusion  of  blacklead  and  boot-polish  impartially 
spread  over  her  expressive  features. 

"  Yus,  it's  me,"  the  girl  said.  "  Who  else  did  yer 
think  it  was  ?  The  Parish  Beadle  ?  'Ere's  yer  boots. 
Missus  cribbed  'era  when  you  wos  asleep  last  night 
and  told  me  to  lock  'em  up." 

Charles  Henry  received  his  boots  with  a  forlorn 
attempt  at  jocosity.  "  She  was  afraid  I'd  spoil  them 
with  too  much  walking  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  whisper. 

**  Yus,"  said  the  slavey.  "  And  she  says  to  Mrs. 
Parker,  wot  lives  next  door,  if  you  don't  pay  up 
to-morrer  she's  a-goin'  to  chuck  yer." 

"She's  strong  enough,"  said  Charles  Henry,  sigh- 
ing. 

The  slavey  produced  a  big  slice  of  bread  and  butter 
from  under  her  apron.  "  You  ain't  a  bad  sort,"  she 
said.     "  Ketch  'old  and  tuck  into  it." 

Charles  Henry  was  very  hungry,  but  he  was  also 
proud.    "  It's  your  breakfast,  isn't  it  ?  "  he  said. 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     163 


also 


"WrrH  A  DEXTEEOUS   MOVEMENT  THE   SLAVEY  REPOSSESSED   HEESELP  OF 

CHAELES  HENET's  BOOTS." 


"  No,"  said  the  slavey,  lying  hard,  "  it's  for  you. 
I  'ad  corfee  and  sassidges  hours  and  hours  ago." 
"  D'you  think,"  said  Charles  Henry — "  d'you  think, 


11, 


m 


n 


u 


% 


■ 


i64     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 

you  poor  little  coon,  I'm  going  to  rob  you  of  the 
food  you  do  get  ?     Never.    Don't  lie  like  that." 

With  a  dexterous  movement  the  slavey  repos- 
sessed herself  of  Charles  Henry's  boots.  "If  you 
don't  eat,"  she  said,  "  I'll  lock  'em  up  again." 

Charles  Henry  was  forced  to  comply.  He  ate 
ravenously.  "  I  should  like  to  have  the  honour  of 
shaking  hands  with  you,''  he  said  solemnly  when  he 
had  finished.  "  I  have  renewed  my  strength  like 
the  eagle." 

"  Orl  right,"  said  the  slavey.  "  Your  beak's  gettin' 
very  like  a  neagle's.     Shake."     And  they  shook. 

It  was  only  nine  o'clock  when  Charles  Henry  left 
his  lodging-house  and  started  for  Fleet  Street.  Ho 
passed  the  office  of  the  Afonireal  Scraps  and  crawled 
on  until  he  came  to  the  Law  Courts.  There,  he  sank 
languidly  down  on  a  seat  and  watched  the  busy 
gardeners  as  they  levelled  turf  and  carted  away  heaps 
of  stones.  Plump  pigeons  strutted  about  under  his 
feet.  Their  very  fatness  was  an  insult.  Oh,  if  he 
could  only  get  one  in  a  pie — with  ru  mp  steak  and 
eggs  and  gravy !  The  warm  sun  came  out  and 
made  him  hungrier  than  before.  With  feeble  steps 
he  crawled  back  to  the  Scraps  office  and  asked  for 
the  editor. 

The  great  man  had  arrived,  and  was  opening  his 
letters.  Charles  Henry  waited  for  half-an-hour,  and 
was  then  admitted  to  the  editorial  sanctum.  A  red 
flush  mounted  to  his  brow.  He,  a  free-born  Cana- 
dian, had  come  to  beg  alms  lest  he  should  die  of 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     165 


hunger.     Still  he  recalled  the  good  time  he  had  had. 
Nothing  could  take  that  away. 

The  great  man  was  reading  a  daily  paper.  Charles 
Henry  felt  instinctively  that  his  shrewd,  handsome 
face  belonged  to  a  clever  man.  Somehow  his  tale 
went  very  lamely.  Even  to  himself  he  couldn't  help 
admitting  that  it  was  bad. 

The  editor  wheeled  round  in  his  chair  and  con- 
fronted Charles  Henry  sternly.  "  See  here,"  he  said. 
"  Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  all  this  ?  What  did 
you  come  over  here  for  ?  " 

"  Pleasure  !  "  said  Charles  Henry  lamely.  "  Plea- 
sure !    And  I  was  a  dum  fool !  " 

"  And  you're  strapped  ?  " 

"  Clean  broke,  dead  broke,  stoney  broke,"  idioma- 
tically and  comprehensively,  if  somewhat  tautologi- 
cally,  answered  Charles  Henry.  "  Pve  come  to  ask 
you  to  help  me.     I'm  hungry." 

"  What  in  the  name  of  thunder  do  you  mean 
by  springing  such  a  yarn  on  me  ? "  inquired  the 
editor.  "  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  Canadian 
consul ? " 

"  Pve  been,"  said  Charles  Henry  briefly.  For  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  plead  any  more. 

"  See  here,"  said  the  editor  again.  "  Pve  helped 
fifty-seven  people  in  the  last  five  years  who've  come 
to  me  with  tales  as  good  as  yours.  If  any  one  of 
them  had  had  the  decency  to  ever  pay  me  back  after- 
wards I'd  have  helped  you.  One  man's  riding  in  his 
carriage  in  Montreal  now  and  passed  me  last  time  I 


3. 


m 


Illll 


;?  t 


166     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS, 

was  over  there  without  knowing  me.     You  clear  out. 
I'm  busy." 

Charles  Henry's  sense  of  humour  had  been  rapidly 
educated  during  his  European  trip.  "  Seems  those 
fifty-seven  have  been  mighty  rough  on  me,"  he  said, 
moving  towards  the  door.  "  Good  day."  And  he 
Avent  out. 

The  editor  turned  to  his  paper,  but  Charles  Henry's 
thin,  handsome  face  came  between  it  and  the  words. 
Then  he  flung  it  down.  *'  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be 
hungry,"  he  said.  "  Gosh  !  he's  right."  lie  rushed 
to  the  door.  "  Hi,  you,  come  back !  "  but  Charles 
Henry  had  disappeared. 

Charles  Henry  staggered  heavily  back  to  his  garret. 
"  I'll  try  to  go  to  sleep,"  he  said.  "  It  will  make 
the  time  pass  quicker.  It's  a  race  between  Death 
and  mother  ;  but  I've  had  a,  good  time  anyhow ; 
and  when  mother  wades  in  she  generally  wins."  He 
slept  for  an  hour.  Then  he  again  awoke,  with  that 
terrible  craving  for  food.  "  I've  had  enough  of  the 
world,"  he  said  to  the  effigy  opposite.  "  If  I  once 
get  back  to  the  Four  Corners  I'll  saw  wood  for  the 
rest  of  my  days.  Who's  there  ?  "  Some  one  had 
knocked. 

"It's  me,"  said  a  well-known  voice. 

Charles  Henry  dissembled  his  emotion,  and  tot- 
tered to  the  door.  But  Mrs.  Hawkins  could  not 
dissemble  hers.  She  drew  him  to  her  breast  and 
cried  over  him,  and  patted  his  curly  head,  and  nearly 
smothered  him  with  kisses.     Then  she  let   him  go, 


?i 


I 


\  \     \vrt^■.^ 


r 


t 


M  i 


At 


I  M 


SHK  DEEW  HIM  TO  HEE  BEEABT  XND  CKIED   OVEB  HIM. 


ill 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS.     169 


ond  Phenisby  Anno  shyly  advanced,  "  I  told  you 
I'd  come  and  fetch  you  when  I  wanted  you,"  was  all 
she  said  ;  "  and  here  I  am." 

Charles  Henry,  with  one  supreme  heroic  effort, 
momentarily  staved  off  the  pangs  of  hunger.  "I  have 
had  a  time,"  he  said  ;  "  a  bully  time.  Houses  of 
Parliament,  Madame  Tussaud's,  Salvation  Army,  the 
Tower,  and  Zoological  Gardens.  Sit  down  on  the 
bed,  mother,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  * 

Phenisby  Anne  looked  at  his  thin  cheeks  for  a 
moment,  as  Mrs.  Hawkins  glanced  round  the  barren 
den. 

' '  Wal,  you  are  a  Prodigy  Son  ! "  Mrs.  Hawkins 
began,  ashamed  to  have  let  her  feelings  get  ahead 
of  her.  .   . 

•'  Hush  !  "  said  Phenisby  Anno.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand. It's  the  fashion  in  this  country  to  get  as 
high  as  you  can,  and  the  higher  you  get  the 
more  miserable  you  look.  Charles  Henry,  you  just 
go  on  telling  your  mother  all  about  the  sights, 
and  I'll  order  dinner.  Then  we'll  go  round  after- 
wards." 

Phenisby  Anne  bustled  about  and  achieved  wonders. 
Ten  minutes  later,  a  table  and  two  chairs  appeared 
in  front  of  the  diminutive  slavey.  Twenty  minutes 
later  Charles  Henry  sat  before  a  somewhat  rude  but 
plentiful  meal,  suffering  exquisite  tortures  as  he 
waited  for  his  mother  to  commence.  It  was  with 
difficulty  that  he  could  restrain  himself  from  tearing 
the  food  with  his  fingers — from  rending  it  like  a  wild 


', 


1    5 


i  I 


I 


fil 


1 70     THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 


:■  :  :  >\ 


beast.     Then  lie  began  to  eat,  and  Phcnisby  Anue*s 
tears  ran  down  into  the  potatoes. 

Mrs.  Hawkins  was  too  short-sighted  to  notice  this 
gratuitous  but  temperate  addition  to  the  meal. 
"  Seems  to  me  with  all  that  money  you  didn't  ought 
to  be  lodged  up  here,"  she  said.  "  I  reckon  *tain't  as 
good  as  our  barn.     IIow  much  have  you  got  left  ? " 

"  More  than  two  hundred  dollars,  I  guess,"  said 
Phenisby  An-ie.  "  There's  his  purse  lying  on  the  bed 
half-open." 

Mrs.  Hawkins  was  mollified.  "  Sakes,"  she  said  ; 
"  if  I  didn't  oughter  'pologise.  Charles  Henry,  I'm 
proud  of  you.  You're  real  level-headed.  An'  it  ain't 
taken  away  your  appetite  neither." 

Charles  Henry  tried  to  explain.  Phenisby  Anne 
put  lier  finger  to  her  lips,  and  Mrs.  Hawkins  never 
knew. 

Phenisby  Anne  felt  sorry  for  Charles  Henry.  Some- 
where down  in  the  depths  of  her  shrewd  intelligence 
lurked  a  similar  desire  to  see  the  world,  only  she  had 
not  given  it  rein.  Could  she  have  put  her  feeling 
into  words,  she  would  have  said  that  it  is  better  to 
dream  of  what  the  world  may  be  than  to  encounter 
it ;  better  to  live  making  it  one  vast  illusion  of 
fairy  dwelling-places  and  beautiful  and  noble 
men  and  women  than  to  come  down  to  sordid 
realities  and  the  squalor  of  everyday  life  ;  better 
to  live  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  Bush, 
with  its  pure,  sweet  pine  odours,  its  waving  ferns 
and    trailing    flowers,    than    to    dwell    hi^h    in    a 


THE  MAN  FROM  THE  FOUR  CORNERS. 


Ill 


garret  the  dusty  panes  of  which  shut  out  the  blue 
sky.  But  Phenisby  Anne  knew  not  that  there  is 
something  in  the  hearts  of  men — something  which 
stirs  the  blood  and  fires  the  eye — something  which 
leads  them  on  to  see  and  feel  and  endure  all  things. 
Some  people  call  it  curiosity  ;  others  give  it  a  nobler 
name.  Be  it  what  it  may,  it  is  part  of  that  indescrib- 
able soul  or  mind  which  elevates  us  above  the  beast 
of  the  field,  and  makes  us  fare  forth  to  see  for  our- 
selves the  cloud-capped  towers  and  lofty  palaces  of  our 
race.  Charles  Henry  had  seen  and  felt ;  he  had  squan- 
dered his  substance  in  riotous  living ;  but  he  had  en- 
larged his  experiences — he  had  at  length  understood 
Phenisby  Anne  ;  and  at  twenty-one  to  comprehend  the 
complex  workings  of  a  woman's  heart  is  a  feat  which 
few  men  achieve.  Charles  Henry  "hankered"  after 
the  fleshpots  no  more.  To  saw  wood  for  Phenisby 
Anne  was  happiness  enough ;  and  Avhen  a  man  has 
grasped  a  truth  like  that,  earth,  air,  and  sky  are  his 
attendant  ministers,  who  do  his  bidding  and  teach 
him  all  the  joy  of  life. 


M 


\   1 


I  I  M 

.  M 

I 

■  r 


FEELEES  OF  LOVE. 


By  ADELAIDE  M.  CAMERON. 


"  Shall  those  smiles  be  called 
Feelers  of  love  ?     .     .     . 

Such  are  they  ; — and  the  same  are  tokens,  signu, 
Which  when  the  appointed  season  hath  arrived, 
Joy  as  her  holiest  langTiage  shall  adopt." 

Wordsworth. 

HE  was  not  a  pretty  old  lady,  certainly  ! 
Not  even  an  attractive-looking  old  lady, 
soft,  and  plump,  and  motherly,  as  well- 
conditioned  old  ladies  should  be  !  No ; 
the  mistress  of  number  twenty,  so  well 
known  by  sight  to  the  d.vellers  in  that 
London  street,  repelled  rather  than  attracted  the  sym- 
pathies of  those  who,  passing  by  her  door  day  after 
day,  and  glancing  up  almost  unconsciously  as  they 
did  so,  saw  always  at  the  same  window  on  the  ground- 
floor,  the  same  figure  seated  in  the  same  arm-chair. 

For  it  was  the  figure  of  a  w^man,  thin  and  spare, 
with  hard,  unbending  face  ;  a  face  on  which  age,  and 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


173 


Care,  and  disappointment  had  set  their  mark  ruth- 
lessly and  unerringly,  without  apparently  having  car- 
ried in  their  train  the  soft  and  healing  touches  of 
time,  and  patience,  and  submission. 

It  was  a  tired-out  face,  unillumined  by  a  smile  ;  a 
face  that  was  the  reflection  of  a  jaded  soul  within 
worn  out  by  long  broodings  over  life's  sorrows,  sor- 
rows bounded  by  the  narrow  limits  of  self  alone. 

Sometimes  the  neighbours  saw  her-  knitting,  now 
and  then,  perhaps  reading.  But  if  so,  the  eyes  were 
raised  ever  and  anon  from  the  book  before  her  and 
allowed  to  wander  aimlessly  up  and  down  the  streef, 
scanning  the  faces  of  the  passers-by  indeed,  but  in  an 
idle  desultory  sort  of  way,  as  though  they  did  so 
more  from  the  force  of  long-acquired  habit  than  from 
the  expectation  of  any  definite  object  to  be  gained 
thereby. 

Except  on  Sundays,  when  she  drove  regularly, 
morning  and  evening,  to  the  Disse'iting  chapel  round 
the  corner,  she  was  rarely  seen  to  cross  the  threshold 
of  her  door,  and  from  week's  end  to  week's  end  hardlv 
a  caller  disturbed  its  quiet.  Beggars  had  learnt  that 
it  was  useless  to  raise  the  knocker  or  ring  the  bell  of 
number  twenty ;  organ-grinders  hugged  their  mon- 
keys closer  as  they  passed  the  house  from  whose 
windows  no  pennies  were  ever  thrown  ;  and  the  muflin- 
mcn  rang  on  their  cheerful  way  without  so  much 
as  a  glance  at  the  dwelling  which  could  remain  so 
utterly  and  persistently  callous  to  the  winter  com- 
forts of  their  tray. 


♦  1 


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FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


Sometimes  the  busy  doctor  from  the  large  house 
opposite  ran  quickly  up  the  steps ;  but  this  was  not 
often,  for  he  had  learnt  never  to  come  unasked,  and 
chronic  rheumatism  calls  more  for  patience  than  for 
physic.  Now  and  again,  too,  the  little  clergyman 
from  round  the  corner  paid  a  pastoral  visit  to  this 
lonely  old  sheep  ;  but  the  visit  was  generally  a  very 
short  one,  and  he  always  came  away  from  it  with  a 
pained  and  baffled  expression  on  his  usually  bright 
and  cheery  face. 

"  Not  yet,  Hester ;  still—  patience,  natience,"  he 
would  say  as  she  let  him  out  ;  and  Hester  would  sigh 
and  shake  her  head  sadly  as  she  returned  to  the  old 
lady  within,  who,  in  spite  of  soured  heart  and  smile- 
less  lips,  was  still  "  Miss  Anne  "  to  her,  the  "  Miss 
Anne"  of  half  a  century  ago,  and  dear  to  her  for  the 
sake  of  many  a  fond  association  with  the  days  that 
were  long  since  past  and  gone.  Her  :  distress  had 
been  handsome,  and  sought  after,,  and  smiling  then  ; 
but  the  "  then"  was  an  old  story  now,  a  part  of  that 
far-off  time  before  the  light  of  her  life  had  gone  out, 
and  joy  had  vanished  from  her  heart.  "Ah,"  thought 
Hester  sometimes,  "  was  it  really  God's  hand  that  had 
extinguished  that  light  ?     God's  or  Miss  Anne's  ? " 

As  I  have  said,  the  tall  house  over  the  way  be- 
longed to  the  busy  doctor,  who  tieemed  to  possess 
the  faculty  of  turning  night  into  day  with  impuuitjf. 
The  bright  face  of  his  one  little  daughter  was  often 
to  be  seen  at  its  windows,  tending  her  pet  plants, 
chirping  to  her  birds,  or — let  us  confess  it — gazing" 


* 


had 


I 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


»7S 


across  frankly  and  fearlessly  at  her  opposite  neigh- 
bour ,  for  Joyce  was  honestly  interested  in  number 
twenty. 

Number  twenty  would  sometimes  watch  the  child 
for  a  few  minutes  too,  but  in  an  abstracted,  indiffe- 
rent fashion,  and  with  as  little  interest  as  she  watched 
most  of  the  objects  which  appeared  on  her  limited 
horizon. 

Hester,  being  sociably  inclined,  knew  something  of 
her  naghbours'  affairs,  and  would  occasionally  let 
drop  a  word  or  two  as  to  the  ways  of  the  doctor's 
household,  but  she  midit  have  saved  herself  the 
trouble  so  far  as  any  interest  her  mistress  evinced  in 
the  matter  was  concerned. 

"  Lights  lit  in  the  nursery,  Miss  Joyce  must  be 
going  to  bed  ;  they  keep  sensible  hours  with  that 
child,"  remarked  the  old  maid  as  she  drew  the  heavy 
curtains  closer  one  late  October  evening.  But  the 
attempt  at  conversation  ending  as  usual  in  a  mono- 
logue, she  gave  it  up  as  hopeless  and  merely  poked 
the  fire  to  a  brighter  blaze  before  leaving  the 
room. 

Meant 'me,  in  the  pleasant  nursery  of  the  house 
opposite,  wrapped  in  her  cosy  blue  dressing-gown,  a 
tiny  maiden  was  busily  toasting  her  dainty  toes  while 
Jane  brushed  out  the  long,  fair  hair. 

"  Jane  ?  "  after  a  second  or  two  of  deep  thought. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Joyce." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  a  good  many  things,  don  t 
you,  Jane  ?  " 


v\ 


ji 

'■'     1 

\ 

■1    :■ 

l| 

4 

"TfS"IP 


I  Hi 


li 


'i^il 


111 


i;6 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


•'TOASTING   IIEE   DAIXTY   TOES  WHILE  JANE   BEUSnEL    OVT  THE   LCJfO, 

FAIR  HAIE." 

'•'  As   maiiy  as  most,  miss,  I   fancy,"  replied  the 
other  modestly. 

"  Well,  then,  jusr  tell  me  this,  what's  the  meaning 


so, 


I 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


177 


of  *  show  yourself  friendly '  ?  Father  said  to-day  that 
if  people  want  to  have  friends  they  must  show 
themselves  friendly!  Now  what  did  he  mean  by 
that  ? " 

"  Bless  the  child !  Avhat  Avill  she  want  to  know 
next  ? "  exclaimed  Jane,  gaining  time  before  commit- 
ting herself  to  the  perils  of  r,  reply. 

"  Well  ?  "  impatientl}'-,  as  Joyce  ran  her  fingers 
across  the  wires  of  the  high  mirsery  fender. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  it  means  pretty  much  what  it 
says,  Miss  Joyce  ;  if  folks  want  friends  they  must 
just  remind  other  folk  chat  they're  there  sometimes, 
not  hide  themselves  away.  It's  a  saying,  you  know, 
miss,  a  sort  of  proverb  like  '  ^Esop's  Fables,'  same  as 
'  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind  ! '  "  and  with  pardonaljle 
pride  in  her  powers  of  explanation  Jane  triumphantly 
knotted  the  ribbon  at  the  end  of  the  long  plait,  and 
began  invitingly  to  turn  down  the  sheets  of  tlie 
dainty  cot. 

Joyce  obediently  prepared  to  lie  down  in  it  but, 
considering  the  lucidity  of  the  other's  reasoning,  iier 
small  face  still  wore  a  strangely  puzzled  expression. 

"  It  hardly  seems  quite  clear  even  now,  does  it, 
Jane?"  she  suggested  politely,  "because  you  sec  it 
was  Mrs.  Tyrol  father  was  talking  about,  and  she 
does  show  herself;  she  is  always  at  that  downstairs 
window.  But  never  mind,  Jane,  it  doesn't  really 
matter.  Good-night,"  and  the  blue  eyes  closed 
sleepily  as  the  fair  head  nestled  down  among  tlie 
t)illows. 

M 


I 


I 


;# 


"j-!(f 


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i 


U  Ml 

an 


178 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


11. 


i].i /. 


si 


\0 

has 


The  doctor  was  starting  on  his  rounds  one  sunny 
autumn  afternoon,  and  the  Httle  figure  in  its  green 
velvet  pelisse  that  was,  by  way  of  special  treat,  to 
accompany  him,  noticed  with  keen  satisfaction  that 
the  landau  being  open,  they  would  get  a  good  view 
of  the  world  and  its  wavs  as  thev  went  aloncf. 

"  It's  not  worth  my  while  to  get  in,  Joy,"  said  her 
father,  as  he  tucked  the  rug  comfortably  about  her. 
"I'm  due  over  the  way  first,"  ind  he  flew  TrrMy 
across  the  street,  leaving  Jo  >  p.^d  tho 
follow  in  more  dignified  fasl  .on. 

"Mrs.  Tyrol  isn't  at  L.;i  vidow  i 
observed  to  herself.  "Poor  tbrn^ ,  I  sup^'^ 
got  the  measles  or  somethii  -,  and  fathei  is  !:<ieping 
her  in  bed.  I  hope  it  isn't  the  mumps !  slumps 
hurt  so.  Anyway,  it's  rather  hard  on  her,  for  she 
•  can't  very  well  be  expected  to  show  herself  friendly 
when  she's  made  to  keep  out  of  everybody's  sight 
like  this." 

However,  it  couldn't  be  helped,  she  supposed,  and, 
accepting  the  inevitable,  Joyce  proceeded  to  turn  her 
attention  to  somethinc?  else. 

Really,  London  streets  were  very  delightful !  Always 
so  much  to  be  seen  in  them  1  There  were  the  two 
sweepers  at  the  corner,  for  ItiMlMline,  thu  big  brother 
who  wore  her  father's  old  clothes  and  had  fits,  and 
the  tiny  brother  with  the  merry  face  who  did  all  the 
sweeping  and  kept  the  liijsinesB  touethor  when  tljg 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


179 


siglit 


its,  and 
all  the 
iieu  tN 


other  was  at  home  having  a  fit.  Joyce  wondered  what 
a  fit  looked  like  ?  It  was  rather  disobliging  of  the 
big  brother  never  to  have  had  one  just  as  she  was 
passing  and  could  have  got  such  a  good  view  of  it ! 
Then  there  was  the  little  old  man  who  sold  chickweed, 
and  announced  the  fact  in  a  chant  so  like  the  one 
they  used  to  the  "  Magnificat "  on  Sundays.  And 
there  were  those  milk-boys,  horrid  things,  who  barked 
at  people's  pet  dogs,  and  tempted  them  to  bark  back 
again,  till  the  neighbours  complained  of  the  poor 
creatures  as  a  nuisance  and  hinted  at  poison,  while 
all  the  time  it  was  the  milk-boys  who  deserved 
the  poison !  Oh  yes,  the  street  was  very  full  of 
interest ! 

Why,  surely  this  couldn't  be  father  back  already ! 
He  had  hardly  had  time  to  feel  Mrs.  Tyrol's  pulse  or 
look  at  her  tongue.  No,  it  was  someone  else  coming 
out  of  number  twenty,  an  elderly  gentleman,  short 
and  stout,  and  merry  and  rosy ;  a  clergyman,  though 
not  one  from  the  church  Joyce  went  to. 

He  smiled  as  his  eye  fell  on  the  little  lady  nestling 
so  cosily  amongst  the  furs,  and,  mindful  of  her 
manners,  she  smiled  back  again,  and  putting  out  lier 
hand  hoped  he  was  quite  well. 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you.  Miss  Joyce.  You  see,  I 
know  your  name  better  than  you  do  mine.  I've  just 
seen  your  father  in  there,  and  he  told  me  I  should 
find  you  outside." 

"  Have  you  been  calling  on  Mrs.  Tyrol  ?  "  enquired 
Joyce,  with  interest. 


-^i 


'!i 


i8o 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


,  "  Yes,  till  your  father  came  in  and  turned  me  out, 
remindinc]^  mc  that  it  was  his  turn  now." 


1 


him: 


■   .1    M    •-    '\n'^ 


\ 


-■■-■'■f-viw'  ■ 


HOPED   HE  WAS  QUITE  Wiilil. 


"  She  isn't  very  ill,  is  she  ?' 
Ill  ?    Bless  you,  no,  my  dear !     Almost  herself 
again  now.    Why,  is  Mrs,  Tyrol  a  great  friend  of 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


i8i 


yours  ? "  he  asked,  smiling  down  at  tlie  eager  little 


lace. 

"  Well,  you  Avould  perhaps  hardly  call  her  a  great 
friend,"  Joyce  admitted,  "  because  I've  never  spoken 
a  word  to  her  yet,  but  I  pass  her  window  or  see  her 
from  over  the  way  so  often  that  I  do  seem  to  know 
her  pretty  well  too.  Sometimes  she  looks  at  me,  but 
generally  she  turns  away  her  head  and  only  lets  me 
see  her  back  hair.  Once  I  wanted  to  nod  to  her,  but 
Jane  wouldn't  let  me  ;  she  said  Mrs.  Tyrol  looked  as 
if  she  might  bite.     Do  yon,  think  she  would  bite  ?  " 

"  No,  little  woman,  I  don't."  He  was  silent  for  a 
minute,  thinking  ;  then  he  said,  "  Miss  Joyce,  I  want 
you  to  do  me  a  favour.  The  ne.xt  time  that  you  see 
more  of  Mrs.  Tyrol  than  just  her  back  hair,  will  you 
promise  me  to  give  her  a  nod  and  a  bright  smile  too  ? 
Never  mind  if  she  does  not  smile  again  at  first ;  go 
on  and  see  what  happens.  The  smiles  of  little  chil- 
dren sometimes  carry  messages  from  God,  you  know ; 
isn't  that  a  nice  ■  thought  ?  Ah,  here  comes  your 
father  !  Well,  good-bye,  tiny  Joyce,  and,  remember, 
I  shall  count  on  your  promise." 


in. 


lerself 
id  of 


Several  weeks  had  passed  away.  The  lingering 
glories  of  autumn  had  long  since  vanished.  Winter, 
in  the  full  zenith  of  his  power,  held  sway. 

For  it  was  the  time  when,  in  the  bright  homes  of 


' 


ii 


182 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


little  children,  joyful  meetings  and  merry  laughter 
most  abound  ;  when  even  in  the  quiet  places  whore 
sad  folks  dwell,  sorrow  is  gently  laid  aside  and  bidden 
for  a  space  be  still.  A  time  of  blessed  softening  to 
many  a  long-hardened  heart ;  a  time  when,  led  by 
the  gentle  guiding  of  the  Christ-child,  many  a  far-off 
wanderer  turns  towards  liome. 

Outside  the  snow  fell  tliick  and  fast.  The  sweepers 
at  the  corner  had  long  since  given  up  their  crossing 
in  despair  and  trudged  homewards  ;  whilst  the  police- 
man in  the  square  near  by  tramped  quickly  up  and 
down  his  beat  and  thought  hard  thoughts  of  his  pro- 
fession. 

Meanwhile,  in  her  fast-darkening  room,  before  a 
glowing  fire,  Mrs.  Tyrol  sat  alone,  as  usual,  alone  and 
thinking. 

Her  life  was  always  a  lonely  one.  If  questioned 
or  condoled  with  on  the  subject  she  would  probably 
have  answered  that  such  had  long  ago  been  her  choice, 
and  that  she  felt  no  desire  to  have  it  otherwise  now. 
And  yet  somehow  this  evening  the  loneliness  was 
asserting  itself  with  a  definite  persistency  altogether 
strange.  What  could  be  wanting  in  her  life  to-night 
that  had  not  been  wanting  there  for  many  and  many 
a  long  year  past  ?  What  was  the  meaning  of  this 
new  sense  of  loss  that  oppressed  her  now  as  she  sat,  a 
lonely  woman  by  her  solitary  fire,  this  snowy  Christ- 
mas Eve  ? 

All  vexed  and  impatient  with  her  weakness  as  she 
was,  the  mistress  of  number  twenty  had  nevertheless 


il   «1 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE, 


183 


for  the  last  few  days  caught  herself  ever  and  anon 
glancing  up  almost  involuntarily,  uud  yet  with  a  kind 
of  restless  expectancy,  at  the  house  over  the  way, 
from  which  of  late  no  bright-faced  little  figure  had 
emerged  to  smile  and  nod  at  lier  with  unfailing 
regularity,  undiscouraged,  apparently,  when  all  her 
friendly  overtures  met  with  little  or  no  response, 
clearly  delighted  when  they  Avon  for  her  the  merest 
nod  of  recognition  in  return. 

At  first  these  same  overtures  had  greatly  astonished 
their  stern  recipient ;  she  had  even  condemned  the 
child  as  forward  and  impertinent.  Gradually,  how- 
ever, she  had  come  to  take  a  sort  of  grim  amusement 
in  the  daily  pantomime,  and  even  at  rare  intervals  to 
bestow  a  short  nod  in  acknowledgment  thncof 

And  now  for  several  days  past  the  nods  and  smiles 
had  been  withdrawn  altogether.  Now  also,  for  some 
strtinge,  inexplicable  reason,  Mrs.  Tyrol  was  feeling 
lonely,  very,  very  lonely. 

Darker  and  darker  grew  the  room,  sadder  and  yet 
more  sad  her  thoughts.  Presently  she  laid  aside  het' 
knitting  and  sat  still,  gazing  into  the  fire  and  think- 
ing, ever  thinking. 

Not  of  the  present !  Oh  no,  the  empty  present 
was  too  desolate  for  that !  Not  of  the  future,  for 
why  anticipate  what  must  be  but  a  sadder  and 
drearier  present  ?  Not  even  of  the  now  far-distant 
days  of  her  early  widowhood,  or  of  the  time  before 
her  one  little  girl-child  left  her.  No,  for  to-night 
her  thoughts,  steadily  refusing  all  guidance  or  con- 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


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184. 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


trol  from  lier,  chose  only  to  dwell  on  the  pages  of  a 
story  old  now  by  Some  twenty  years  and  more,  but 
whose  dark  chapters  still  stood  out  distinct  and  clear 
against  the  dim  background  of  time. 

Had  she  really  been  too  hard  on  him,  that  son 
whom,  God  knows,  she  had  loved  more  than  all  else 
on  earth  besides  ?  Was  it  true,  as  they  said,  that 
her  harshness  rather  than  his  sin  had  driven  him 
from  her  side  ?  What  right  had  they  to  hint  that 
the  stern  Calvinistic  upbringing  she  herself  had 
known  should  have  been  softened  and  relaxed  for 
him  ?  Over-strict,  did  they  call  her  ?  Well,  and  if 
she  had  refused  to  have  his  noisy  friends  about  her 
house  or  the  smell  of  smoke  within  her  walls,  what 
of  that  ?  And  how  could  she  have  refrained  from 
condemning  cards  and  play-going  as  the  evil  things 
they  were,  and  yet  herself  have  remained  guiltless 
in  the  matter?  And  then  she  shuddered  as  she 
recalled  the  scene  her  horrified  eyes  had  witnessed 
v/hen,  ill  the  grey  dawn  of  a  winter's  morning — a 
Christmas  morning  too — the  babe  she  had  borne,  the 
boy  she  had  loved  and  prayed  for,  the  man  from 
whose  future  she  had  hoped  so  much,  reeled  help- 
lessly upstairs,  too  stupefied  and  confused  to  com- 
prehend Hester's  beseeching  whispers  to  him  to  be 
quiet,  that  she — his  mother — might  not  learn  his 
shame.    -  "  -      .       .  ,  , 

Yet  now,  they  said,  forgive.  Nay  more — write, 
they  urged,  and  call  him  home.  The  clergyman 
close  by  had,  Avith  some  difficulty  and  labour,  found 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


i«S 


out  his  address ;  the  boy  had  not  fallen  patt  for- 
giveness, he  pleaded,  the  man  need  not  shame  her 
now.  But  surely,  surely,  they  expected  too  much  ! 
Had  she  not  watched  for  him  year  after  year  from 
that  window,  and  watched  in  vain  ?  Should  forgiveness 
be  tendered  unsought  ?  Ought  not  the  first  step 
toward?  reconciliation  to  come  from  the  sinner  rather 
than  the  sinned  against  ? 

Just  as  she  reached  this  sad  point  in  her  musings, 
there  came  all  at  once  floating  down  the  quiet,  snow- 
clad  street,  sung  in  a  woman's  quavering  voice  to  a 
well-remembered  air,  the  words  of  an  old  familiar 
song,  and  the  burden  of  that  song  was  all  of  peace 
and  mercy,  of  goodwill  and  forgiveness. 

The  words  fell  with  a  clear  and  startling  distinct- 
ness on  at  least  one  listener's  ear.  Mrs.  Tyrol  moved 
impatiently  in  her  chair.  Such  old-fashioned  words  ! 
She  must  have  heard  them  some  hundreds  of  times 
before,  why  should  they  haunt  or  trouble  her  now  ? 
And  yet  to-night,  try  as  she  would  to  get  rid  of 
them,  they  kept  ringing  on  over  and  over  again  in 
her  ears,  returning  always  with  such  a  steady  and 
untiring  persistency  that  she  could  not  choose  but 
listen. 

The  singer's  voice  had  long  since  died  away  in  the 
distance,  but  the  echo  of  the  old  song  remained 
behind,  and  the  soft  whisper  of  its  refrain  was  still 
the  same,  "peace  and  mercy,  goodwill  and  forgive- 
ness."   


tl: 


ii 


\m\.\ 


r 


Ii 


vm 


1 86 


FEELERS  OF  LGVE. 


IV. 


Christmas  Day  dawned  bright  and  clear. 

Hester's  mistress  had  not  rested  well  last  night, 
and  she  came  into  her  sitting-room  this  morning 
looking  tired  and  jaded.  What  did  the  joy  of  Christ- 
mas mean  to  her  ?  What  blessing  could  the  day 
have  in  store  for  one  so  lonely  and  sad  as  she  ? 

Just  then  her  eye  fell  on  a  table  made  bright  by 
the  beauty  of  a  large  bunch  of  late  chrysanthemums. 
How  foolish  of  Hester  !  Had  she  not  forbidden  her 
to  waste  money  on  flowers  ?  But  the  latter,  on  being 
questioned,  said — 

"  Miss  Joyce  sent  them  over  early  this  morning 
with  this  card  and  her  love,  ma'am.  She  has  been 
in  the  house  for  a  day  or  two  with  cold,  but  is  to  be 
out  again  this  afternoon,  and  hopes  to  see  you  at  the 
window  as  usual." 

Mrs.  Tyrol  took  the  card  and  looked  at  it.  A 
brilliantly  painted  angel  with  impossible  wings,  and 
underneath  the  words,  "  Peace  and  goodwill." 

Hardly  glancing  at  the  flowers  she  turned  away  her 
head  so  that  the  other  saw  nothing  of  a  strange  new 
light  that  had  come  into  her  mistress's  eyes,  could 
guess  nothing  of  a  yet  stranger  feeling  that  was 
struggling  at  her  heart. 

By-and-by  she  sat  down  in  her  old  seat  by  the 
window,  and  torday  her  eyes  did  not  wander  up  and 
down  the  street,  but  watched  closely  though  furtively 
the  door  of  the  doctor's  house  opposite.     Before  very 


r 


m 


.  1  .t 


I'ti 


'i: 


BLEW  A  KISS  TO  THE  LONELY  OLD  WOMAK  OVKE  TEE  WAY. 


' 


-m 


/ 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


189 


long  it  opened,  and  out  from  it  there  tripped  the 
doctor's  Httle  daughter,  forming,  in  her  bright  scarlet 
cloak,  a  warm  spot  of  colour  against  the  white  setting 
of  the  snow-world  all  round. 

Pausing  ere  she  descended  the  steps,  she  glanced 
quickly  across  the  road,  nodded,  smiled  ;  then,  moved 
by  some  divinely  guided  instinct,  suddenly  raised  one 
small  hand  to  her  rosy  lips  and  blew  a  kiss  to  the 
lonely  old  woman  over  the  way. 

And  then  a  wonderful  thing  took  place.  Across 
that  hard,  unbending  countenance,  over  those  stern, 
repressive  lips,  there  broke  all  at  once  a  smile,  sweet, 
and  soft,  and  gentle  as  little  Joyce's  own,  lighting  up 
with  a  strange  radiance  the  tired-out  face,  making  the 
worn  features  almost  beautiful  again.  Then,  the  firm 
lips  suddenly  quivering,  Mrs.  Tyrol  rose  hastily  and 
left  the  window. 

But  some  one  else  besides  Joyce  had  caught  a 
vision  of  that  smile. 

Ever  since  early  morning  a  man,  more  weary  and 
worn-looking  than  old,  had  been  haunting  that  street 
and  neighbourhood,  never  very  far  from  number 
twenty,  yet  unwilling  apparently  to  approach  quite 
close  to  its  door,  or  to  be  seen  from  its  windows. 

But  just  at  the  moment  when  Joyce  appeared,  the 
man,  moving  with  slow  uncertain  steps,  ventured 
somewhat  nearer  to  the  house.  Very  hesitatingly, 
very  doubtfully,  he  glanced  towards  the  window  where 
a  sad  woman  sat  alone  ;  then,  he  too  catching  sight 
of  the  radiance  of  that  sudden  smile,  saw  the  stern 


w\ 


* 

1    1 


igo 


FEELERS  OF  LOVE. 


face  become  soft  and  gentle,  and  hesitating  no  longer, 
a  wanderer  passed  quickly  up  the  steps  of  home, 
knocked,  and  was  admitted. 

A  little  later,  Joyce,  gazing  across  the  darkening 
street  to  the  fire-lie  room  of  her  friend,  cried  out — 

"  Why,  mother,  the  old  lady  has  got  a  visitor  at 
last,  and  I  do  believe  he  is  saying  his  prayers  with 
his  head  in  her  lap." 

But  the  eyes  of  the  doctor's  wife  were  dim,  as 
drawing  near,  she  gently  pulled  the  blind  down. 


fc'.'P'' ajjaimi'i''" 


^,B*»*kU 


m 


m\ 


i: 


TOTTIE. 

By  HERBERT  GUTHRIE -SMITn. 

REMEMBER  well  the  first  occasion  on  which 
I  met  the  father  of  Miss  Mary  Macpherson, 
for  such  was  "  Tottie's  "  real  name. 

It  was  in  February,  and  we  had  been 
working  from  early  morning  weaning  the 
lambs.  Clouds  of  dust  rising  thick  in  the 
breezeless  air  had  blotted  out  invidious  distinctions 
of  colour,  and  Maori  and  white  man  were  alike 
brown. 

Out  of  the  cloudless  sky  of  real  New  Zealand  blue 
the  sun  shone  with  fierce  heat,  the  wool  of  the  sheep 
was  burning  to  the  touch,  the  dogs  panted  with 
dripping  tongues,  and  the  men  felt  to  the  full  the 
primal  curse — "  In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shalt  thou 
eat  bread." 

In  spite  of  the  great  heat,  the  sheep  ran  through 
the  yards  well,  and  by  dint  of  shouting,   and  the 


1} 
I' 


i 


w 

m 


192 


TOTTIE. 


various  grotesque  and  forceful  movements  necessary 
to  frighten  sheep,  the  moV»  v,as  finished  before  noon. 

The  "billy"  was  then  boiled  and  we  sat  down  for 
lunch  beneath  the  shade  of  a  huge  willow  long  ago 
planted  by  the  early  missionaries.  The  dogs  too 
enjoyed  the  cessation  of  work.  According  to  their 
various  natures,  they  coiled  themselves  in  shady 
spots  or  supplicated,  with  twisting  of  body  and 
wagging  of  tail,  for  bones,  watching  their  masters' 
movements  with  slobbering  mouths,  restless  feet,  and 
agitated  ears.  Pipes  were  next  produced ;  tobacco 
was  cut  from  junks  and  the  pared  chips  rubbed  to  a 
suitable  fineness  between  the  palms. 

The  shepherds,  leaning  against  the  willow's  wrinkled 
bole,  bragged  of  their  dogs,  or  discussed  that  subject 
which  in  pastoral  communities  takes  precedence  of 
the  weather — sheep. 

The  talk  proceeded  to  runs,  thence  to  their  owners, 
and  finally  I  heard  my  new  neighbour,  Mr.  Donald 
Macpherson,  mentioned.  He  had  acquired  his  run 
through  a  brother's  death,  and  was  reported  among 
the  shepherds  to  be  ignorant  of  even  the  rudiments 
of  ovine  knowledge.  I  gathered  from  their  conversa- 
tion that,  by  reason  of  this  very  ignorance,  he  was 
likely  to  be  easily  convinced  that  his  neighbours  were 
bent  on  "having  him."  "  Having,"  euphemistically 
expresses  such  advantages  as  may  allowably,  in  pas- 
toral ethics,  be  taken  of  a  "  new  hand." 

However,  there  was  other  work  to  do  than  listen  to 
shepherds'  chatter ;  ashes  were  knocked  out  of  pipes 


/^ni 


ra|.7 


i  ^ 


t 

■  I 


'.iil 


"THE  SHEPHEBDS  BEAQQED  OF  THEIB  DOGS  OE  DISCUSSED  SHEEP. 


ii 


-i<s. 


'^V 


,  ■    .V.t- 


:\v.-; 


■^y 


vj 


m 


TOTTIE. 


195 


and   the  willow's   pleasant    shade   was   once    more 
changed  :^or  the  noonday  heat. 

The  weaners  had  to  be  driven  to  their  new  pad- 
dock, and  as  there  were  about  two  thousand  in  the 
flock  a  couple  of  shapherds  were  sent  on  to  prevent 
ixiem  spreading  too  widely  while  being  counted  out. 
The  yard  gates  were  then  thrown  open  and  the  sheep 
spying  green  grass  and  liberty  pressed  to  escape  ;  the 
counter,  as  each  hundred  passed,  sang  out  "tally" 
to  the  **  tally  "  keeper,  who  nicked  it  down  on  a  rail 
or  stick,  thus  losing  no  time. 

As  we  set  out  with  our  rather  troublesome  mob, 
the  sharp-sensed  dogs  barked  at  a  stranger  on  a 
grey  horse.  He  was  coming  down  the  clay  cutting 
which  in  our  district  represents  the  high  road  of  that 
Royal  Lady  whom  the  natives  term  Queen  te  Wike- 
toria. 

Shortly  after,  when  I  got  back  to  the  yards,  the 
stranger  had  arrived  and  was  with  the  shepherds 
inspecting  a  crushed  object  which  had  been  lifted  from 
the  drafting  pens  to  the  larger  side  yards,  and  which 
I  guessed  was  a  smothered  sheep. 

It  was  our  new  neighbour,  as  Scottish  as  his  name, 
shrewd;  cold  outwardly  lest  the  world  should  deem 
he  had  a  heart  and  work  on  it,  energetic  and  *'  dour." 
He  had  graduated  in  the  true  colonial  school  and 
had  taken  honours  as  ferryman,  bullock-puncher, 
market-gardener,  splitter,  sawyer,  and  in  half-a- 
dozen  other  employments.  He  was  about  fifty  years 
of  age,  bronzed  and  grizzled,  yet  upright  and  stronger 


!      Hi 


It 


than  many  a  younger  man.  He  rode  an  upstanding 
grey  hack,  and  was  followed  by  two  collies,  pup  and 
patriarch,  neither  of  which  I  judged  to  be  of  much 
use. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Macpherson,"  I  said. 
"Will  you  ride  on  to  the  house,  or  will  you  wait 
until  this  smaii  lot  is  drafted  ?  "  I  pointed  to  an 
odd  lot  of  woollies,  strangers,  &c.  He  preferred  to 
wa^'t.  I  glanced  then  at  the  dead  sheep  more  closely. 
It  happened,  as  luck  would  hav^e  it,  to  belong  to 
Mucj^herson.  "  Hullo,  your  sheep  !  '*  I  exclaimed,  in 
surprise. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  taking  a  long  look  at  me,  "  my 
sheep." 

There  were  still  in  the  yarc's  a  numoer  of  un- 
decked weaners  similar  to  the  one  smothered.  I 
turned  to  Scottie — our  head  shepherd — and  said, 
"  Catch  any  one  of  these  Mr.  Macpherson  chooses 
and  put  his  ear-mark  on  it ;  he  can  take  it  to-morrow 
with  his  other  sheep."  He  had  come  for  some  that 
had  got  through  a  broken  fence.  Macpherson  nodded 
assent,  and  with  characteristic  deliberation  chose  one 
— not  t^^e  worst  either,  I  noticed.  .  However,  I  was 
justly  responsible  for  my  shepherd's  carelessness,  and 
besides  was  anxious  to  keep  on  friendly  terms  with 
my  new  neighbour.  A  few  minutes  later  we  rode 
over  to  the  house,  and  a  swim  in  the  cool  lake  was  a 
pleasant  termination  to  a  hot  day's  work.  "^~  x~r'; 

After  dinner,  while  we  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace 
with  that  enjoyment  which  only  hard  work  can  pro- 


•>.v 


TOTTIE. 


197 


ding 

and 

Quch 

said, 
wait 
,0  an 
3d  to 
osely. 
Dg  to 
ed,  in 

"  my 

pf  un- 
d.     I 

said, 
tiooses 
lorrow 
le  that 
iodded 
ise  one 

I  was 

s,  and 
with 
e  rode 

was  a 

peace 
^n  pro- 


is 


duoe,  I  was  glad  to  discover  that  my  companion  was 
not  a  bad  fellow  at  all,  but  that  as  he  was  tenacious 
of  impressions  once  received,  I  might  have  had  on 
very  small  grounds  an  exceedingly  formidable  person 
to  deal  with. 

We  talked  at  first  on  the  usual  subjects  of  sheep- 
farmers,  turnips,  lung-worm,  the  price  of  stock,  the 
frozen  meat  trade,  the  respective  merits  of  steel  and 
galvanized  wire.  I  discovered  that  he  knew  on  these 
entertaininp"  topics  little  of  practical  knowledge.  His 
theories  were  crathered  from  Endish  works  on  stock 
and  farming,  and  were  quite  inapplicable  to  colonial 
surroundings.  He  was  more  at  home  speaking  of 
his  orchard  and  a  vineyard  he  had  just  planted,  but 
the  soft  spot  in  his  heart  was  for  his  little  girl, 
Tottie.  Sha  was  about  ten  years  of  age,  he  informed 
me,  and  was  about  to  go  to  school  for  the  first  time 
next  month.  He  described  with  tiiat  eloquence  that 
comes  from  the  heart,  how  dear  she  was  to  him,  how 
upon  Ins  return  she  would  come  running  to  meet 
him,  and  all  her  lovable  ways  and  words.  He  said 
to  me,         "  •     •  ■        ..      •     -  • 

"  You  are  a  young  man,  and  will  be  thinking  that 
there  is  no  love  like  that  a  man  bears  his  sweet- 
heart, but  take  an  old  fellow's  word  for  it,  no  man 
loves  his  best  until  he  loves  a  child.  You  will  be 
coming  down  our  way  some  of  these  days  and  we'll 
show  you  our  little  girl."  There  was  an  interval  of 
silence;  then  he  asked  rather  suddenly,  pointing  to 
a  photograph  of  the  girl  to  whom  I  was  engaged, 


m 
'ill 

Pi 


III 


198 


TOTTIE. 


"  That  will  be  your  sweetheart's  picture  ?  "  He  con- 
tinued, "  She's  bonnie  and  good,  too,  I'm  sure ;  my 
own  little  lass  has  just  got  these  very  eyes."  We 
bade  each  other  a  very  friendly  good-night,  and  I 
determined  to  ride  over  some  Sunday  and  see  Tottie 
before  she  went  to  school. 

Next  morning  Macpherson's  sheep  were  run  into 
the  yards  by  Scottie,  and  after  an  early  breakfast  I 
went  over  to  see  him  safely  off.  My  overnight's 
doubt  of  the  value  of  rny  friend's  dogs  and  of  his 
own  shepherd-craft  was  more  than  realised  by  the 
reault.  Instead  of  sending  away  his  "  leading  "  dog 
— the  grey-muzzled  old  fellow — before  the  sheep 
were  let  go,  he  opened  the  gates.  The  sheep — mostly 
wild  merino  wethers — of  course  bolted  for  their  lives ; 
then,  too  late,  he  started  his  old  dog  who,  after  the 
manner  of  his  race,  finding  he  could  not  immediately 
overtake  the  sheep,  yelped  with  exasperation  and 
anxiety,  thereby  causing  them  to  run  even  faster. 

The  pup,  half  broken,  could  not  be  restrained,  but 
followed  his  companion.  Finally  Macpherson  gal- 
loped off  also,  the  whole  episode  being  greatly  en- 
joyed by  the  grinning  shepherds  and  a  couple  of 
packmen  who  were  loading  up  their  horses.  When 
I  got  over  the  first  rise,  however,  the  old  dog  had 
got  them  safely  and  the  pup  was  running  round  him. 
licking  his  chops  and  evidently  congratulating  him 
on  his  extraordinary  aptitude. 

The  sheep  had  spread  to  graze  and  were  all  there. 
It  is,  as  perhaps  the  world  in  general  may  not  know, 


TOTTIE, 


1Q9 


j|i 


there, 
know, 


one  of  the  most  gross  breaches  of  pastoral  etiquette 
to  offer  to  drive  another  man's  mob  for  him.     Of 
course  therefore  I  could  not  volunteer  my  services 
until  Macpherson  him- 
self expressed  doubts 
of  his  capability  to  get 
the    sheep    over    our 
ranges,     rough     with 
fern  and  scrub. 

This  he  did,  how- 
ever. I  took  the  sheep 
in  hand,  and  after  a 
troublesome  drive  we 
arrived  safely  at  the 
boundary  creek.  There 
— sheep^are  like  cats 
in  their  dislike  to  wet 
their  feet  —  we  had 
enough  trouble  to* ex- 
cuse in  some  degree 
the  warmth  of  his 
thanks.  He  would  not 
hear  either  of  my  not 
going  home  with  him 
when  so  near.  We 
rode  on  therefore   on  scottie. 

excellent    terms  with 

each  other.  His  undisguised  admiration  for  my 
old  yellow  "leading"  dog,  "Spy,"  and  "Mac," 
the  best  dog  ever  I  had — let  me  sing  their  praises, 


I 


iiijl 


ioo 


TOTTIE, 


l\ 


am  not  I  also  a  man  and  a  shepherd  ?— had  won 
my  heart,  for  nothing  is  more  gratifying  to  a 
shepherd's  vanity  than  praise  of  his  collies.  We 
rode  for  a  couple  of  hours  along  the  gravelly,  lime- 
stone creek  till  we  approached  the  homestead.  There 
the  dogs  set  up  their  usual  clamorous  welcome.  Mac- 
pherson's  house  stood  in  a  fertile  strath,  through 
which  the  pretty  stream  meandered  in  long  bends. 
From  the  verandah  overlooking  the  small  garden, 
bright  with  flowers,  could  be  obtained  a  glimpse  of 
the  sea,  and  the  thunder  of  the  surf  in  heavy 
weather  echoed  far  up  among  the  green  hills.  Here 
and  there  weeping  willows  had  been  planted,  and 
their  leafy  tresses  trailed  to  the  very  water's  edge. 
Our  dogs,  preceding  us,  splashed  across  the  broad 
pebbly  crossing,  and  shortly  afterwards  Tottie  her- 
self appeared  in  the  garden.  She  was  looking  up 
at  the  zigzag  track  by  which  her  father  usually 
came  home.  He  cooe'd,  and  she  came  running  down 
the  gravel  path,  and  this  was  where  I  first  saw  my 
little  girl. 

I  do  not  know  that  she  was  beautiful,  except  with 
such  beauty  as  we  confer  upon  those  we  love,  and 
none  could  long  know  Tottie  without  loving  her. 
She  was  rather  tall  for  her  age,  with  an  upright, 
lithe  little  figure.  She  had  on  bronzed-clocked 
stockings,  and  I  think  wore  a  white  frock,  cool  and 
Summery  with  ribbons  of  some  blossom  colour, 
peach,  medlar,  or  almond.  My  companion,  who.  had 
quite   forgotten   me  in    his  greeting   to    his    little 


TOTTIE. 


201 


daughter,  now  introduced  me  as  his  last  night's  host, 
and  Tottie  gravely  welcomed  me  to  Aranui.  That 
evening  it  was  pretty  to  see  the  old  man's  courtesy 
to  his  child  ;  he  was  evidently  wrapped  up  in  her, 
and  no  doubt  but  for  her  own  sweet  disposition  she 
would  have  been  utterly  spoiled. 

The  previous  evening  her  father  had  casually 
mentioned  that  she  was  fond  of  dominoes.  When 
the  evening  meal  was  over,  therefore,  I  proposed  to 
her  that  we  should  play.  She  assented,  and  whilst 
the  game  proceeded  I  gathered  from  the  little  bush 
maiden  how  she  passed  her  days.  She  rode  up  and 
down  the  valley,  she  told  me,  sometimes  with  her 
father  but  more  often  by  herself.  An  observant 
little  creature,  she  knew  where  the  bush  birds  built, 
and  the  habits  and  names  of  the  native  flowers.  She 
promised  to  show  me  the  round  white  eggs  of  the 
native  kingfisher  ;  a  Maori  urchin  had  taken  the 
nest — probably  a  second  one — from  a  hole  in  the 
river  bank  just  before  we  arrived. 
.  During  the  evening  I  was  much  struck  with  the 
absence  in  her  of  that  egoism  common  to  nearly  all 
children.  T  remember  after  we  had  played  a  couple 
of  games,  unlike  a  child  preoccupied  with  self,  she 
inquired  if  I  would  not  rather  talk  to  her  father,  and 
evidently  assuming  after  a  third  game  I  should  be 
merely  continuing  to  play  out  of  complaisance,  she 
gravely  put  away  her  ivory  dominoes.  "  Thank  you 
much  for  havinof 


very 


played 


I 


She  then  took  a  book  and  read  quietly  till  the  clock 


20;: 


TOTTIE. 


ill 


struck  half-past  eight,  her  bed-time.  After  kissing 
her  father  she  put  up  a  rosy  Httle  mouth  to  me 
also,  and  I  felt  my  lips  once  more  touched  by  a 
child's. 

Next  morning  Macpherson  helped  me  to  catch  my 
pony  ;  he  said  at  parting,  "  My  little  girl  likes  you 
and  I  like  you  ;  it  does  not  look  now  as  if  I  could 
ever  help  you  ;  I  hope  you  will  never  need  it,  but  *  I 
hae  seen  their  coggie  fou.'  "  He  quoted  Burns's 
lines  with  considerable  feeling.  "  If  ever  that  day 
comes,  which  God  forbid,  ask  for  Donald  Macpher- 
son." "We  shook  hands  warmly.  I  kissed  Tottie, 
who  presented  me  with  a  bunch  of  roses,  and  rode 
back  thinking  to  myself  how  often  kind  hearts  lie 
under  rough  speech  and  rude  appearances. 

When  I  got  home,  I  put  the  flowers  into  a  tin, 
meaning  to  keep  them  ;  our  Chinese  cook,  however, 
Ah  Lee,  a  practical  man  not  given  to  sentiment,  and 
short  of  these  useful  utensils,  threw  them  out  next 


mornmg. 


Our  run  was  being  broken  in  then,  the  bush  felled, 
the  swamps  drained,  and  great  blocks  of  fern  country 
crushed  by  sheep.  Our  time  was  therefore  very 
fully  occupied,  and  what  society  we  saw  on  the  place 
was  of  the  roughest  kind.  With  the  exception  of 
the  Macphersons,  our  only  neighbours  were  two 
young  fellows  whom  I  had  known  at  home.  They 
were  like  ourselves,  toilfuUy  occupied  in  transforming 
scrub,  swamp,  and  fern  into  grass.  Sometimes  we 
would  all  ride  down  together  to  Aranui  on  Sundays. 


TOTTIE. 


203 


. 


GOOD-NIQHT. 


There,  what  I  had  feared  had  to  some  degree  come 
to  pass.  My  old  friend  had  quarrelled  on  all  sorts 
of  petty  details  with  his  neighbours.  The  splitters, 
he  asseverated,  must  be  taking  his  sheep,  they  had 
six  fat  dogs  and  nothing  to  feed  them  on  except 


204- 


TOTTIE. 


empty  sard  ne  tins.  The  mailman  passing  through 
the  run  left  the  gates  open  or  threw  them  off  their 
hinges  ;  the  drovers,  travelling  with  mobs  of  sheep, 
took  more  than  their  fair  share  of  grass.  In  fact, 
he  had  filled  his  life  with  petty  angers  and  annoy- 
ances. 

As  Tottie  grew  older,  however,  a  change  came  over 
the  little  valley  by  the  sea.  Gradually  neighbours 
learnt  to  laugh  and  allow  something  for  the  brusque 
old  Scotsman.  A  few  words  from  Tottie  subdued 
the  recalcitrant  mailman ;  she  visited  the  splitters' 
camp  on  Sunday  and  discovered  that  their  dogs  were 
doing  good  service  in  keeping  down  the  wild  pigs. 
While  we  were  there  two  of  the  men  came  in  with 
buckets  of  honey  taken  from  a  hollow  rata-tree.  She 
accepted  a  portion  of  the  amber  comb,  and  afterwards, 
in  some  friendly  form  or  another,  returned  the  gift, 
and  there  was  peace  in  the  land.  The  drovers,  if 
they  still  allowed  their  sheep  to  spread  too  widely,  at 
any  rate  learnt  to  control  their  tongues.  In  such 
ways  did  Tottie  bring  peace  and  good-will  to  her 
little  world.  Little  by  little  all  we  young  fellows 
learnt  to  meet  on  Sundi^ys  at  Aranui,  and  though  I 
dare  say  at  the  time  we  did  not  fully  realise  it,  yet 
the  pleasure  of  presenting  some  spray  of  scarlet  mis- 
tletoe or  wreath  of  clematis  to  Tottie  was  a  principal 
reason  for  our  appearance.  In  the  afternoons  of  those 
pleasant  days  we  nearly  always  walked  down  to  the 
cool  sea-shore,  when  the  tide  was  out  along  the  base 
cf  the  high  limestone  crags  that  faced  the  ocean. 


TOTTIE. 


205 


To  the  busy  world  at  home,  where  men  lived  fuller 
lives,  it  may  seem  strange,  yet  these  strolls  along  the 
beach,  where  the  shells  looked  whiter  in  the  wet 
brown  sand,  were  events  in  our  narrow  and  contracted 
lives.  There  was  no  ladies'  society  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, and  the  sweet  refining  influence  of  this  little 
maiden  no  doubt  recalled  pleasant  memories  of  home. 
Perhaps  in  part  we  loved  Tottie  for  these  memories 
which  she  awoke.  Beside  her  once  more  perhaps  we 
trod  the  heathery  uplands  where  birches  grow  and 
bog  myrtle  scents  the  air,  or  strolled  in  dewy  English 
lanes  where  nightingales  build  in  the  tall  hedgerow 
weeds,  and  black  sleek  cattle  chew  their  cud  among 
deep  anthered  grass.  ' 

Our  last  Sunday  with  Tottie  I  remember  well.  It 
was  in  August,  and  only  down  by  the  sea  were  the 
first  signs  of  spring  visible.  The  thistles  were  still 
spread  winter-flat  on  the  damp  earth  yet  un warmed. 
The  plumes  of  the  toi-toi  grass  were  wrinkled  and  , 
pink,  the  clematis  hung  out  no  white  flag  to  spring. 
Only  the  leafless  kowhai  bloomed,  dull  yellow  in  the 
sun.  Across  tho  firmament  white  fleecy  clouds  sailed 
lazily ;  their  shadows  chased  each  other  slowly  over 
pine-green  bush  and  brighter  grass ;  one  or  two 
earliest  lambs  bleated  faintly  on  the  hill-sides. 

We  sauntered  along  the  rocky  coast,  where  only  a* 
narrow  riband  of  sand  barred  sea  from  cliff.     We 
lingered  long  enjoying  the  calm  of  the  sea  and  the 
constant  ripple  of  the  tide,  and  only  when  the  short 
twilight  began  to  fall  slowly  retraced  our  steps.     As 


I 
1 


206 


TOTTIE. 


we  neared  home,  passing  the  laurel  hedge,  a  brown 
bird  glided  out  with  the  silence  that  seeks  to  conceal, 
and  Tottie,  ever  observant,  cried,  "  Oh,  I  am  sure  its 
nest  is  here."  "We  searched  accordingly,  and  found 
it ;  it  was  that  of  an  English  thrush,  and  greatly  to 
Tottie's  joy  contained  three  blue  eggs,  dotted  with 
jet  at  the  thicker  end.  She  asked  me  how  long 
it  would  be  before  the  eggs  would  hatch.  I 
told  her,  and  she  replied,  "  Ah,  that  will  be  when 
I  come  back.'*  She  was  going  on  a  short  visit  to 
Auckland. 

None  of  us  ever  saw  our  little  friend  again.  About 
ten  days  afterwards  my  partner  and  myself,  riding 
through  the  run,  met  young  Fitzgerald  coming  down 
the  long  cutting.  It  was  mail  day,  so  we  sang  out  the 
native  welcome,  "  Haere  Mai,  Haere  Mai,"  and  cantered 
forward  to  meet  him.  Before  we  got  up,  however, 
we  felt  there  was  something  wrong,  his  face  but  too 
vividly  expressed  bad  news.  "  Good  God,  Fitz,  what 
is  it?"  we  cried  together.  "Tottie"  was  all  he 
could  say.  "Tottie!"  we  exclaimed  incredulously. 
"  Is  she  ill  ? "  He  could  not  form  his  words ;  the 
tears  that  come  so  painfully  to  a  man  rolled  down 
his  sun-browned  face.  It  was  a  deeper  grief  than 
hope  allows.  Our  little  girl  had  died  in  Auckland. 
We  should  never  again  see  her  bright  little  face,  or 
hear  her  gentle  voice.  As  we  rode  slowly  homewards 
we  heard  what  little  Fitzgerald  had  to  tell  us.  In 
town  he  had  met  the  old  man,  who  had  wrung  his 
hand  and  asked  him  to  let  us  know.     The  funeral 


TOTTIE, 


207 


was  to-morrow  at  three  o'clock.  The  bar  at  the  river 
mouth  had  fortunately  been  open  and  the  tug  had 
been  able  to  C(  !ne  in  with  the  coffin,  which  had  been 
brought  down  from  Auckland.  Every  one  had  been 
most  kind ;  the  natives  had  offered  their  assistance 
to  carry  it  had  the  bar  been  blocked.  Such  sympathy 
as  man  can  give  to  man  had  been  afforded.  Next 
day  we  all  rode  down  from  the  run,  curiously,  perhaps, 
dressed  for  a  funeral,  but  with  heavier  hearts,  I  dare 
say,  than  black  coats  often  hide. 

The  old  man  met  us  at  the  crossing  by  the 
willow-trees  ;  we  shook  hands  silently  with  him.  He 
led  us  into  the  little  sitting-room  which  had  so  often 
been  brightened  by  the  presence  of  our  little  girl. 
The  coffin  lay  on  the  table,  «nd  beside  it  was  a  pair 
of  worsted  socks  and  half-fini.shed  carpet  slippers, 
last  evidences  of  Tottie's  loving  thoughtfulness.  He 
pointed  to  them.  "  She  was  making  them  for  my 
birthday.  I  shall  never  wear  them  now,  I  shall  never 
wear  them  now." 

Speaking  a  few  words  at  a  time,  he  told  us  she 
had  died  very  suddenly  from  some  illness  incidental 
to  her  age.  He  had  hardly  arrived  in  time  to  say 
more  than  good-bye.  He  told  us  how,  thinking  of 
.  other's  feelings  to  the  very  end,  she  had  expr\essed 
sorrow  for  the  trouble  she  gave,  and  lastly,  when  her 
voice  failed,  smiled  her  thanks.  Not  very  far  from 
the  sea,  close  by  a  clump  of  native  bush,  her  grave 
had  been  prepared.  Walking  slowly  we  carried  the 
coffin  along  the  winding  track  ;  we  passed  the  laurels 


208 


TOTTIE. 


where  the  thrush  had  built,  and  recalling  Tottie's 
words,  "  Ah,  that  will  be  when  I  come  back,"  I  raised 
the  leafy  screen ;  the  nest  was  gone,  only  some 
broken  shells  remained  upon  the  ground.  Little  had 
changed  in  the  fortnight  since  last  we  had  been  there, 
and  every  step  recalled  the  happier  past.  Only  a 
fuller  spring  had  come ;  the  golden  dandelions 
bloomed  on  hollow  slender  stalks,  the  rye-grass 
gleamed,  and  the  thistles,  no  longer  flat,  shot  forth 
their  prickly  spikes.  The  air  was  sweet  with  the 
bush  flowers'  scent,  birds  sang,  and  multitudes  of 
lambs  were  bleating  to  each  other  across  the  narrow 
valley.  On  such  a  day,  so  calm  that  we  could  hear 
from  the  sea  the  wash  and  bubble-break  of  lapping 
ebb  and  flow,  we  buried  her. 

As  the  earth  was  reverently  filled  in,  the  beautiful 
service  for  the  dead  blended  in  our  ears  with  the 
sounds  of  May,  of  young  life  and  happy  growth. 

Over  the  lonely  grave  is  erected  a  marble  cross. 
It  is  fenced  off  from  the  intruding  cattle  with  stronor 
rough  rails.  The  few  words  graved  thereon  were 
chosen  by  her  father. 


•'/■ 


"  MAKY  MACPHERSON, 

AGBD  THIBTEEN  YEABS  AND  THEEE  MONTHa. 
^  BBECTED  BY  HEB  FEIENDS  AT 

EANOIOEA  AND  AEANUI.'* 


The  months  slipped  by  and  grew  to  years.  Man 
in  this  brief  span  hastens  to  forget  his  griefs — and 
very  soon  we  ceased  to  speak  of  Tottie,  but  sometimes, 


TOTTIE. 


209 


even  yet,  curiously  intruding  amiJ  thoughts  of  plea- 
sure, amhition,  and  business,  with  the  scent  of  the 
rangiora's  bloom  or  the  sound  of  soft  sea  music 
through  the  leafy  trees,  come  back  to  me  Tottie's 
bright  fiice  and  gentle  voice.  At  such  moments,  in 
spite  of  the  mist  in  my  eyes,  a  child  of  the  fancy 
rises  before  my  sight,  and  I  see  in  unchangeable 
beauty  and  youth  the  little  bush  maiden  again. 


^1 


4> 


f 


•^■•' 


-mffm:. 


MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

By  blanche  ATKINSON. 

T  often  happens  in  this  v/orkl  that  a  square 
peg  finds  itself  in  o.  round  hole.  Miss 
Maloney,  as  she  sat  in  the  bar  parlour  of  a 
low  public -house,  felt  that  this  was  sadly 
true  in  her  case.  She  knew  that  she  and 
her  surroundings  were  incongruous.  She 
knew  that  she  could  never  learn  to  correspond  with 
her  environment.  For  she  was  young  and  pretty, 
and  loved  purity  and  refinement.  When,  distracted 
by  troubled  thoughts,  she  looked  up  from  the  volume 
of  Matthew  -arnold's  Essays,  which  she  was  trying  to 
read,  her  eyes  drooped  again  quickly,  and  an  expres- 
sion of  disgust  gathered  on  her  pale  face.  For  she 
saw  a  dull,  dirty  room,  square  and  ugly.  Black 
horsehair-covered  cliairs  stood  round  a  square  table 
which  was  littered  over  with  Sperling  Chronicles  and 
Shipping  Gazettes —tobacco-  and  beer-stained.  There 
was  a  vulgarly  coloured  wall-paper,  with  publicans' 


MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE.       z  1 1 


pres- 
slie 
31ack 
table 
and 
?here 
cans' 


advertisements  adorning  it.  A  smell  of  mingled 
tobacco  and  drink  permeated  the  dingy  place  ;  sounds 
of  rough  voices  and  coarse  words  filled  her  ears,  and 
all  the  while  her  heart  was  aching  for  the  "  Sweet- 
ness and  Light "  which  had  hitherto  brightened  her 
guarded  life.  ■' 

Only  a  few  weeks  before  this,  Miss  Maloney's  father 
had  sat  contentedly  at  that  table,  his  glass  before 
him,  his  Nyms,  Bardolphs,  and  Pistols  nround  him. 
Then,  what  they  called  conviviality  had  reigned  in 
the  now-deserted  parlour.  The  table  had  been  banged 
with  applauding  fists  until  the  glasses  danced,  at  the 
conclusion  of  song  or  speech.  The  company  had 
grinred  and  roared  over  coarse  jokes,  or  the  stories 
of  shady  tricks  on  the  turf  or  in  the  billiard-rooja. 
They  had  registered  bets  in  dirty  dog-eared  book& 
with  earnest  solemnity ;  had  backed  horses  and  prize- 
fighters with  all  the  oDthusiasra  which  Englishmen 
consecrate  to  sport ;  and  sometimes  ended  their 
**  Noctes  Ambrosianae  "  by  a  free  fight,  which  in  no 
wise  diminished  their  good-fellowship  when  sobriety 
set  in  once  more — or  at  least  the  quasi- sobriety  which 
was  the  normal  condition  of  old  Maloney  and  his  set. 

The  end  to  all  this  came  suddenly.  Maloney's 
da  'ghter  arrived  in  time  to  spend  a  few  hours  by 
her  father's  death-bed,  and  to  comfort  him  with  her 
ministrations  and  gentle  words.  She  had  never  been 
in  his  home  before,  and  had  never  loved  him  so  much 
as  now,  when  she  saw  from  what  he  had  shielded 
her.     It  had  often  troubled  the  girl  that  her  rough 


Is  45 


:1  ;f''- 
A  Vp 

■  i  '-ft. 
nil' 


' 


212       AflSS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

old  father  refused  to  let  her  live  with  him.  But,  bad 
as  he  had  been,  he  had  loved  her  too  well  to  let  her 
share  the  hideous  and  hateful  life  which  had  grown 
pleasant  to  him.  All  the  better  side  of  his  nature 
showed  itself  in  his  treatment  of  his  only  child. 
When  his  pretty  young  wife,  the  daughter  of  a  poor 
schoolmaster,  died,  he  took  his  little  Polly  to  a 
widowed  aunt  of  her  mother's,  and  asked  her  to  take 
charge  of  the  child.  "  Make  her  a  lady,  like  yourself, 
ma'am,"  he  said.  "  Polly  will  have  plenty  of  money 
one  of  these  days,  so  spare  no  expense.  I'll  find  the 
needful." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  paid  royally  for 
his  little  Polly,  and  often  came  to  see  her  with  his 
pockets  stuffed  with  sweetmeats  and  toys.  But,  as 
the  girl  grew  up,  she  began  to  wish  for  more  from 
her  father  than  playthings.  She  wanted  to  love  him, 
and  share  his  daily  life,  and  this  he  would  not  hear 
of  She  knew  noihing  of  him  except  as  the  generous 
giver  of  everything  she  wanted.  Her  own  life  was 
peaceful  and  pure,  and  of  his  she  was  absolutely  in 
the  dark. 

But  Maloney  did  not  succeed  in  making  money  as 
fast  as  he  had  hoped  to  do.  He  spent  a  great  deal 
on  Polly.  He  gave  a  large  sum  for  the  public-house 
of  which  he  was  tenant,  and  immediately  afterwards 
the  neighbourhood  began  to  "go  down,"  for  one  of 
the  mysterious  reasons  which  now  and  then  make 
neighbourhoods  go  up  or  down.  His  customers  were 
not  always   profitable.      He  encouraged   a   class   of 


p 


MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE.      213 

sporting  gentlemen,  and  gathered  about  him  a  set  of 
betting  and  prize-fighting  blackguards,  who  helped  to 
get  him  into  many  difficulties,  but  never  saw  any 
need  for  helping  to  get  him  out  of  them.  So  that 
when  Miss  Maloney  sat  alone  in  the  dingy  bar  parlour, 
and  tried  in  vain  to  comfort  herself  by  reading  Mat- 
thew Arnold's  "  Essays  in  Criticism,"  she  knew  that, 
far  from  having  "  plenty  of  money,"  she  had  only  a 
few  shillings  in  the  world  now  that  the  funeral  ex- 
penses and  her  father's  debts  were  paid  ;  and  that 
she  inherited  from  him  nothing  but  this  vile  public- 
house,  with  its  bad  traditions  and  unsavoury  notoriety. 

At  first,  after  her  father's  death,  Mary  Maloney 
had  felt  too  desolate  and  too  horrified  with  all  about 
her  to  realise  her  position.  She  would  not  send  for 
her  aunt  to  come  to  her ;  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  that  anyone  in  her  old  home  should  know 
where  and  how  her  father  had  lived.  So  she  bore 
the  wretchedness  of  it  all  as  best  she  could,  waiting 
impatiently  until  arrangements  could  be  made  to  take 
wdiatever  money  was  left,  and  fly  back  to  the  happy 
security  of  her  dear  aunt's  home.  She  intended  to 
place  a  manager  in  tlie  public-house ;  or,  if  that 
could  not  be  done,  to  find  a  tenant  for  it,  who  would 
take  over  the  stock  and  furniture  ;  and  in  a  few  weeks 
more  she  hoped  to  be  at  liberty  to  turn  over  this 
dark  page  of  experience,  and  forget  all  about  it. 

Forget  it — yes,  that  would  be  very  necessary,  for 
Mary  knew  that  she  could  never  be  happy  again  in 
the  innocent  lifo  of  old,  unless  she  could  forget  it. 


P 


I 


\m 


,iii 


■i    i!! 


214       MISS  MALONEF'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

To  go  back  to  the  quiet  village  where  she  knew  every 
face,  and  the  uneventful  history  of  every  person ;  to 
spend  her  days  on'ie  more  in  delightful  hours  of 
study,  and  of  intellectual  talk  with  her  aunt  and  her 
friends — in  music,  and  drawing,  and  prettinesses  of 
all  sorts  ;  to  visit  the  sick  old  worn  on,  and  read  the 
Bible  to  them  between  gifts  of  shillings  and  packets 
of  tea  administered  as  bribes  ;  to  coddle  the  babies, 
and  tef.ch  the  rosy-faced  boys  and  girls  in  the  Sunday- 
school  ;  to  cultivate  her  roses,  and  dress  her  garden, 
and  love  the  sweet  country  lanes  and  the  sunny  fields 
with  a  satisfaction  which  had  given  life  hitherto  an 
idyllic  charm — this  was  what  she  meant  to  do  ;  and 
to  forget — to  forget,  as  a  horrible,  unreal  nightmare 
— these  days  passed  in  what  had  been  her  father's 
home. 

And  yet  as  Miss  Maloney  sat  day  after  day  in  the 
bar  parlour,  and  watched  the  new  phase  of  life  which 
was  so  ugly  and  revolting,  she  began  to  see  that  this, 
too,  was  redly  and  no  nightmare,  ugly  as  it  was,  and 
to  fear  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  forget  it. 
She  watched,  with  a  horrible  fascination,  the  suc- 
cession of  wretched  and  degraded  faces  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  who  passed  in  and  out  of  her 
public-house,  leaving  their  pence,  or  sometimes  their 
shillings,  in  the  till,  which  was  emptied  at  night  into 
her  pocket.  She  watched  while  little  children  with 
white  faces,  and  miserable  rags  for  clothing,  reached 
up  to  the  barman  cracked  jugs  and  cups  to  be  filled 
with  poisonous  beer  or  spirits  ;  she  saw  the  women, 


Jl/ISS  MALONEV'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE.       21 


her 


"  SHB  WATCHED  WITH  A  HOERIBLE  FASCINATION." 

old  and  young,  but  draggled  and  dirty  one  and  all, 
cajoling  or  abusing  the  men  who  treated  them,  or 
refused  to  do  so.  She  saw  weary-looking  women 
come  in  and  try  to  get  their  husbands  away,  and 
husbands  dragging  out  half-drunken  wives.  She 
noticed  the  men  who  were  regular  customers,  who 


1 


!>^s 


ri 


PI 


2i6      MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

hung  about  all  the  evening,  running  up  a  score  which 
was  only  partly  wiped  out  every  Saturday  ;  and,  worst 
sight  of  all,  she  saw  the  tawdrily  dressed,  sometimes 
pretty,  but  shameless-faced  girls  who  followed  them 
in,  and  never  shrank  from  drunken  jest  or  oath.  And 
Mary  felt  her  cheeks  burn,  and  her  heart  grew  heavier. 
Very  soon  the  conviction  forced  itself  upon  her  that 
she  could  not  live  by  money  made  in  such  a  trade  as 
this,  and  she  determined  to  sell  the  public-house  out- 
right. 

"  Yes,  Miss,"  said  the  house  agent  whom  she  went 
to  consult,  "it's  a  very  good  corner  house,  and  will- 
fetch  a  fair  price.  The  licence  can  no  doubt  be  trans- 
ferred to  a  purchaser,  and "  - 

"But,"  interrupted  Mary,  "I  will  not  sell  it  for  a 
public-house.  That  is  not  what  I  mean  ;  I  might  as 
well  keep  it  on  myself,  as  do  that." 

"  In  that  case  you  will  have  to  keep  it.  Miss,  I'm 
afraid.  There  isn't  another  business  the  neighbour- 
hood could  sujoport,  and  no  one  Avould  buy  it,  except 
for  a  pub,"  said  the  agent. 

And  Mary  saw  that  he  was  right,  and  went  back 
and  began  to  think.  All  sorts  of  thoughts  came  into 
her  brain,  and  the  burden  of  the  world's  sorrow  and 
sin,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  humanity,  gradually  took 
possession  of  her.  This  low  public-house,  which  she 
had  heard  called  the  curse  of  the  neighbourhood,  was 
her  sole  inheritance  from  her  father.  What  if  she 
could  turn  it  into  a  blessing  ? 
■    She  gathered  together  all  the  books  she  could  find 


M/SS  MALONErS  PUBLIC-HOUSE.      217 

on  the  Temperance  Question,  and  began  to  study  the 
various  methods  adopted  in  dealinr  with  it.  For 
three  days  she  pored  over  them,  like  Don  Quixote 
over  his  books  of  Chivalrv.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
she  flung  them  aside. 

"I  shall  do  nothing  if  I  waste  my  time  seeing  what 
other  people  do,"  she  said ;  "  I'll  just  try  a  little 
common-sense." 

First  she  called  the  barman. 

"  I  mean  to  keep  this  house  on  myself,"  she  said, 
"  and  will  keep  you  too  if  you  will  do  exactly  as  I 
wish.  To  begin  with,  I  will  sell  nothing  ])ut  pure 
beer  and  spirits." 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  I  knew  you  wasn't  the  right  sort  to  make  it  pay. 
Miss.  I'll  do  anything  in  reason  to  please  you, 
but " 

"  I  know  you  will,"  she  said  with  a  smile,  which 
made  the  man  her  devoted  slave  for  ever.  "  It  is 
only  because  you  know  no  better  that  you  sell  these 
poor  people  such  poisonous  rubbish.  Then  you  must 
never  have  any  dealings  with  children  ;  thirdly,  you 
must  absolutely  refuse  to  supply  any  man  or  woman 
with  drink  who  has  already  had  too  much.  And  you 
can  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

'*  But  you  will  be  bankrupt  in  a  month,  Miss." 

*'  Nonsense  ;  I  have  few  expenses  here  ;  you  know 
that  the  profits  are  enormous,  and  I  only  want  to 
pay  my  way,  not  to  make  a  fortune  out  of  these 
people." 


2i8       MISS  MALONErS  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

The  barman  scratched  his  head,  shook  it  more 
mournfully  than      er,  but  said  no  more. 

Then  Miss  Maloncy  made  a  few  other  changes.  She 
brightened  up  her  dingy  bar  parlour ;  made  cocoa 
and  coffee  there,  and  had  a  supply  of  wholesome  food 
for  any  customers  who  would  have  it.  She  provided 
also  a  supply  of  wholesome  literature,  but  few  of  her 
customers  cared  for  that,  except  sometimes  the 
younger  ones.  Nevertheless  Mary  found  that  tlie 
set  of  men  who  had  got  into  the  habit  of  spending 
their  evenings  at  "  Maloney's  "  still  came,  and  some- 
times one  would  read  the  newspaper  aloud  to  a  select 
few  ;  and  often  weary  workers  would  croei^  into  the 
warm,  cheerful  room,  and  sleep  until  they  were  turned 
out  at  closing  time. 

"  They  want  something  more  rousing  than  books," 
said  Mary,  at  last,  and  she  sent  for  her  piano,  and 
told  the  barman  to  find  her  a  good  singer.  When  he 
was  found  Mary  played  while  he  sang,  and  the  men 
and  women  came  in  numbers  to  listen  to  his  fine  old 
sea  songs  and  plaintive  ballads  ;  and  Mary  grew  more 

and  more  determined  to  keep  on  her  public-house. 

*  *  *  *  • 

The  Vicar  of  St.  Matthias-in-the-Fields  was  speed- 
ing along  the  streets  not  far  from  "  Maloney's  "  in 
passionate  haste.  "The  Fields,"  as  the  title  of  the 
parish,  was  only  a  pathetic  remembrance  of  the  days 
when  green  meadows  and  golden  grain  were  to  be  seen 
instead  of  squalid  courts  and  dingy  blocks  of  build- 
ings.    A  population  of  ignorant  and  usually  vicious 


3 
9 


I 


^^-^' 


A//SS  MALONEV'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE,      tit 


! 


It;  > 

i 


human  creatures  crowded  the  wretched  dwellings ; 
and  an  almost  hopeless  mass  of  poverty  and  wretched- 
ness weltered  and  suffered  around  St.  Matthias-in- 
the-Fields.  It  was  the  lot  of  the  Vicar  to  live  in  this 
scene  of  wretchedness  ;  to  combat  the  vice  and  igno- 
rance, and  dispel,  so  far  as  in  him  lay,  the  gross 
darkness.  And  zealously — if  sometimes  with  the  zeal 
that  lacketh  knowledge — he  threw  himself  into  his 
work.  He  held  advanced  and  rigid  views  on  Church 
matters  ;  advocated  the  celibacy  of  the  priesthood  ; 
loved  a  florid  ritual,  and  personally  drilled  his  choir. 
His  church  was  crowded  on  Sundays — not  by  the 
people  who  lived  in  his  parish,  but  by  a  fashionable 
congregation,  attracted  by  the  fine  music,  the  elo- 
quent preaching,  the  well-known  saintliness  of  the 
Vicar,  and,  perhaps  in  the  case  of  fair  devotees,  by 
saintly  admiration  of  the  celibate  priest. 

The  Rev.  Algernon  Lamote  was  of  high  birth,  and 
had  ample  means.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man  ; 
he  had  a  beautiful  voice,  and  the  expression  of  an 
enthusiast.  No  wonder  he  bore  the  character  of  a 
saint ;  no  wonder  if  he  was  sometimes  tempted  to 
think  his  ways  infallibly  right,  and  all  who  in  any 
manner  thwarted  him  unquestionably  wrong.  But 
even  saints,  it  may  be  presumed,  have  their  bad  days, 
and  Mr.  Lamote,  as  he  strode  along  the  dirty  street, 
neither  looked  nor  felt  as  if  he  deserved  canonization. 
Refined  and  ascetic  features  have  a  tendency  to  look 
pinched  and  meagre  on  a  cold  day — and  it  was  a  very 
cold  day.     The  biting  east  wind  blew  the  tails  of  the 


222       MISS  MALONErS  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 


Vicar  s  coat  about ;  ho  bent  his  long  neck  to  keep  the 
low  felt  hat  from  being  blown  off  his  head ;  the  hail- 
stones made  his  ears  tingle,  and  he  was  thoroughly 
uncomfortable.  But  this  was  nothing  to  the  bitter 
storm  which  raged  within  his  breast.  If  the  Reve- 
rend Algernon  had  one  vulnerable  point  (and  all 
heroes  have  one  at  least)  it  was  his  choir.  That  was 
his  hobby,  his  ewe  lamb.  On  it  ho  lavished  the  ten- 
der care  and  afifection  which  more  carnal-minded  men 
bestow  upon  wife  and  children.  If  the  Vifar  had  one 
enemy  for  whom  he  found  it  hard  to  pray,  it  was 
"old  Maloney."  He  had  been  his  chief  adversary 
ever  since  he  came  to  the  parish.  And  now,  though 
old  Maloney,  to  Mr.  Lamote's  great  satisfaction,  was 
dead,  the  evil  influence  of  his  abominable  public- 
house  seamed  to  bo  more  potent  than  ever.  This 
morning  the  Vicar  had  heard  news  which  had  roused 
his  righteous  wrath.  The  daughter  of  old  Maloney 
was  keeping  on  the  public- house,  and  not  content 
with  ruining  the  bodies  and  souls  of  his  flock  by  her 
vile  traflic,  was  capable  of  stretching  forth  unholy 
hands  to  rob  his  most  precious  and  peculiar  fold. 

Everyone  has  heard  of,  or  has  met,  at  some  ti'jie 
or  other,  a  wonderrxl  genius  who  ougld  to  have  been 
a  Landseer,  a  Tennyson,  an  Irving,  or  a  Mario,  but 
who,  through  misfortune  or  frailty,  poses  before  the 
world  to  the  end  as  a  melancholy  "might-have-been." 
The  Vicar  of  St.  Matthias-in-the-Fields  had  been  for- 
tunate enough  to  discover  a  tenor  singer  whose  voice 
was  unequalled  in  tone  and  sweetness — u  lenor  afflicted 


MISS  MALONErS  PUBLIC-HOUSE.      223 


ted 


unhappily  with  a  Panurgic  thirst.  However,  the  Vicar 
had  secured  him  for  his  choir,  and  had  expended  un- 
heard-of energy  and  watchfulness  in  coaxing  and 
preaching  Tom  Grindley  into  a  sufficient  degree  of 
sobriety  to  wear  the  white  surplice  on  Sundays  with- 
out scandal.  The  new  tenor  had  brought  extra  fame 
to  the  services  at  St.  Matthias,  and  the  Vicar  was 
proud  of  his  i^ro^e'^e. 

And  now,  two  days  before  Christmas,  the  aAvful 
news  had  reached  the  Vicar's  ears  that  Tom  had  been 
decoyed  by  Miss  Maloney  into  singing  every  evening 
at  her  notorious  public-house.  The  Rev.  Algernon 
felt  that  such  sacrilege  could  not  be  tolerated.  As  he 
sped  along  the  streets  his  soul  was  hot  within  him. 
Though  ApoUyon  himself  withstood  him,  ho  felt 
strong  to  fight  to  rescue  this  brand,  and  when  he 
reached  "  Maloney's,"  it  was  as  though  the  spirit  of  a 
Hebrew  prophet  had  descended  upon  him,  and  he 
was  ready  to  scorch,  with  his  burning  words,  the 
painted  Jezebel  who  had  dared  to  tamper  with  his 
precious  possession.  It  never  occurred  to  him  for  an 
instant  that  Miss  Maloney  could  have  any  reasonable 
excuse  to  offer,  nor  that  Tori  Grindley  was  free  to 
make  any  use  he  chose  of  his  gift. 

When  the  Vicar  pushed  open  the  swing  door,  the 
outer  bar  of  the  public-house  was  empty,  but  for  the 
barman  busy  behind  the  counter,  and  two  or  three 
ragged  children  waiting  with  a  dish  for  some  broken 
meat.  They  shrank  away  from  the  Vicar — for  even 
a  saint  looks  ugly  with  the  corners  of  his  mouth 


224.      M/SS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 

drawn  down  and  his  eyes  fierce  ;  and  }»lr.  Lamote 
pushed  past  them  and  entered  the  parlour.  An  old 
man,  who  many  times  had  taken  shelter  there  from  a 
fireless  home,  erouched  in  a  warm  corner,  and  mut- 
tered something  about   "a   d d  parson,"   as  he 

caught  sight  of  the  tall,  black  figure.  Mary,  with 
the  food  for  the  children  in  her  hands,  nearly  ran 
against  the  Vicar,  and  started  and  blushed  "guiltily" 
— as  he  noticed,  when  he  began,  "  Miss  Maloney  !  I 
have  come  to  speak  very  seriously  to  you." 

His  voice  was  hard  and  rasping.  As  a  rule  chival- 
rous to  a  fault  in  his  conduct  towards  women,  he 
was  just  now  too  fiercely  indignant  with  Miss  Maloney 
to  hide  his  scorn  and  anger.  He  did  not  remove  his 
hat  as  he  spoke.  He  looked  her  full  in  the  face,  and 
made  a  mental  note  of  the  painted  cheeks,  and  frizzled 
hair,  and  bold  eyes,  which  were  what  he  had  expected 
to  find.  Poor  Mary  blushed  painfully,  partly  because 
it  \^\as  the  first  time  "  a  gentleman  "  had  spoken  to 
her  since  she  began  this  new  hie,  and  she  was  con- 
scious all  at  once  that  she  was  no  more  to  be  treated 
as  "  a  lady."  Her  hair  was  always  wavy,  and  of  the 
colour  llossetti  loved  to  paint ;  and  her  clear,  grey 
eyes  had  never  learnt  to  droop  or  flinch  for  shame  or 
fear.  So  she  faced  the  clergyman,  and  he,  for  the 
first  and  last  time  in  his  life,  so  far  forgot  himself  in 
his  wrath,  as  to  be  rude  to  a  defenceless  woman. 

"  Miss  Maloney  !  are  you  not  ashamed  of  yourself 
to  enter  upon  this  vile  trade,  at  your  time  of  life,  and 
to  make  a  living  for  yourself  by  being  a  curse  to  your 


IP 


MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOrSE.       225 

fellow-creatures  ?    Do  you  ever  think  what  this  drink 
traffic  means  ?    Do  you  know  that  every  penny  you 


♦•  ABB  YOU  NOT  ASHAMKD  OF  YOUP.SELF  TO  ENTEB  TTPON  THIS  VILB  TRADE, 

AT  YOUR  TIJtB  OF  LIFE  F  " 


take  from  these  ignorant  wretches  who  crowd  your 
doors,  is  the  price  of  their  misery  ?    Is  it  not  possible 

...     ,      T 


226      3IJSS  MALONEys  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 


to  waken  you  to  the  fact,  that  by  making  this 
infamous  place  attractive,  you  are  luring  men  and 
women  to  their  ruin,  that  your  very  existence  here 
is  a  perpetual  blight  upon  their  existences,  that  your 
profit  is  their  eternal  loss  ?  " 

For  an  instant  he  paused,  and  Mary  tried  to  speak, 
but  he  would  not  listen  to  one  syllable. 

"  Look  at  these  emaciated,  stunted  children.  You 
do  not  even  spare  their  innocence  ;  you  sell  them 
drink.  You  are  responsible  that  they  grow  up  de- 
praved and  lost."    Here  the  children  turned  and  fled. 

"You  have  no  reverence  for  old  age"—  anc'  "ns 
eyes  fell  upon  the  old  man,  who  felt  very  uneasy,  and 
relieved  himself  by  curses  not  loud  but  deep — "  all 
decent  habits,  all  self-respect,  all  religion  will  be 
destroyed  by  you,  and  such  as  you,  if  these  things  go 
on  unreproved.  But  I,  for  one,  will  reprove,  and  will 
tell  you  face  to  face  of  your  sins  and  hateful  life,  as 
long  as  I  breathe.  Woman,  have  you  no  feeling  of 
right  and  wrong  left  ?  Even  when  the  Prodigal,  who 
has  wasted  his  substance  for  years,  creeps  back  to  the 
fold,  comes  penitently  to  his  Mother  Church,  and 
takes  refuge  in  her  arms  "  (the  Vicar  did  not  mean  to 
misrepresent  facts,  but  eloquence  often  carries  one 
beyond  the  bare  truth),  "  you  tempt  him  aw^y  by 
your  vile  arts,  and  the  gift  of  song,  which  he  had 
consecrated  to  the  service  of  Heaven,  is  made,  by  you, 
the  means  of  dragging  souls  to  Hell.  Send  Thomas 
Grindley  back  to  me,  to  his  one  true  friend.  Give 
him  up ;  let  me  save  his  immortal  soul  while  there  is 


MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE.      ii-j 


\ 


a  chance,  or  otherwise,  I  warn  you,  his  rain  will  be 
laid  to  your  charge  in  the  Day  of  Judgment." 

"  Sir,"  Mary  began — but  the  Reverend  Algernon, 
having  delivered  his  message,  shook  the  dust  of  the 
place  from  off  his  feet  (metaphorically  speaking),  and 
departed  as  suddenly  as  he  had  entered. 

The  next  afternoon,  when  the  choir  met  for  prac- 
tising after  fivo  o'clock  Vespers,  the  Vicar  admonished 
Tom  Grindley.  But  the  spoilt  protege  was  sullen 
under  reproof. 

"  You'd  no  call  to  speak  to  Miss  Maloney  as  you 
did,"  he  said.  "  She's  doing  a  lot  more  good  down 
there  than  some  folks  I  could  mention,  for  all  their 
preachin'  and  prayin'.  And  you've  almost  broken 
her  heart.  Women's  such  fools  about  Avhat  parsons 
says  to  'em.  She  told  me  I  wasn't  to  sing  there 
any  more  ;  but  I  said  if  I  give  that  up,  I  give  choir 
up  too.     And  I'm  going  to-night." 

When  the  Vicar  sat  alone  in  his  study  that  even- 
ing, he  was  very  miserable.  It  was  Christmas  Eve. 
If  Tom  should  not  appear — and  appear  in  decent 
condition— at  the  service  next  morning,  what  would 
become  of  all  the  beautiful  music  he  had  taken  so 
much  trouble  to  prepare,  for  the  glory  of  God,  and — 
well,  yes,  in  some  measure,  for  his  own  gratification  ? 
Tom's  manner  had  been  defiant,  and  his  words  rankled 
in  the  Vicar's  soul.  He  did  not  beliove  in  the 
possibility  that  Miss  Maloney  could  do  anything  but 
harm.  He  did  not  think  that  she  had  ever  been 
to  church  j  certainly  she  had  not  consulted  him,  nor 


*28      MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE. 


offered  to  become  a  church  worker  under  him.  How 
was  it  possible  she  could  do  any  good  ?  No  doubt 
poor  Tom  was  deluded.  The  woman  was  pretty  ;  who 
could  tell  hovv  she  might  lure  him  to  destruction  ? 
The  Vicar  grew  restless,  and  at  last  determined  to 
hover  about  Tom's  path  like  an  invisible  guardian 
angel,  and  see  him  safe  home,  drunk  or  sober,  when 
the  orgies  at  "  Maloney's  "  were  over. 

It  was  already  growing  late,  but,  full  of  enthu- 
siasm, he  once  more  rushed  along  the  streets, 
and  only  stopped  when  he  reached  "  Maloney's " 
corner. 

The  place  looked  busy  and  cheerful,  compared 
with  the  miserable  houses  around.  A  warm  light 
shone  into  the  street  through  the  red  curtains  across 
the  window,  and  sounds  of  music  could  be  heard 
some  distance  off.  Mr.  Lamote  had  passed  more 
than  a  dozen  other  public-houses  on  his  way  to 
"  Maloney's,"  but  not  one  of  them  seemed  to  be  so 
popular  as  this.  He  groaned  in  spirit,  as  he  stood 
at  the  opposite  corner  and  watched  the  people  enter- 
ing. Men  and  women  of  all  sorts ;  many  young 
lads  ;  and  even  quite  respectable-looking  girls.  Alas  ! 
alas !  Suddenly,  he  quickly  crossed  the  street,  mut- 
tering, "  Ah  !  what  horrible  desecration.  I  must  put 
a  stop  to  this," 

He  pushed  open  the  door,  let  it  swing  to  behind 
him,  and  stood  still,  unnoticed  in  the  crowd.  Had  he 
made  a  mistake  ?  Was  this  the  place  which  he  had 
often  called  the  curse  of  the  parish  ?  it  "  dese- 


AfISS  MALONEF'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE,      229 


cration  "  that  sacred  music  should  be  sung  to  such  an 
audience  as  this  ?  For  in  the  midst  of  the  people 
stood  Tom  Grindley,  and  sang.  Every  face  was 
turned  towards  him,  and  every  face  bore  traces  of 
poverty  and  toil,  many  of  sin  and  shame  also.  There 
were  figures  bent  with  weariness,  eyes  bleared  with 
tears ;  there  were  coarse  and  brutal  faces  in  that 
strange  crowd,  and  faces  which  had  grown  stolid  in 
hopeless  wretchedness  ;  but  as  the  Vicar  looked,  a 
wonderful  gleam  seemed  to  pass  from  face  to  face 
while  in  the  lovely  tones  which  often  brought  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  his  sensitive  congregation  at  St.  Mat- 
thias, Tom  sang,  "  And  the  crooked  shall  be  made 
straight,  and  the  rough  places  shall  be  made  plain, 
for  the  mouth  of  the  Lord  hath  spoken  it." 

It  was  the  anthem  chosen  for  Christmas  Day.  The 
Vicar  felt  a  choking  in  his  throat.  If  Tom  could 
only  sing  in  church  to  such  an  audience  as  this,  it 
would  be  somethmg  to  thank  God  for.  But  if  such 
an  audience  would  not  come  to  church,  what  then  ? 

The  Vicar  remained  hidden  behind  the  crowd  and 
looked  round,  curiously  moved.  The  place  was 
orderly,  and,  at  least  while  the  music  lasted,  per- 
fectly quiet.  There  were  some  few  men  smoking, 
but  not  many,  because,  as  Tom  afterwards  explained, 
he  had  told  them  the  tobacco  got  down  his  throat, 
and  it  was  only  new-comers  who  smoked  during  the 
singing.  Many  of  the  men  had  glasses  before  them, 
and  there  was  the  usual  smell  of  beer  and  spirits,  and 
unclean  humanity ;  but  through  the  opened  folding* 


230      MISS  MALONErS  PUBLIC-HOUSE, 


doors  Mr.  Lamote  could  see  that  in  the  parlour  men 
and  women  were  drinking  tea  and  coffee,  and  eating 
sandwiches  and  buns,  and  many  others  seemed  to  be 
waiting  to  take  their  places.  ' 

Just  beside  Tom  was  a  piano,  and  a  lady  sat  and 
played  for  him  ;  but  Mr.  Lamote  had  forgotten  Miss 
Maloney  for  the  moment,  and  it  was  only  when  the 
song  was  over,  and  the  people  began  to  move  about 
that  he  saw  her,  and  remembered  with  a  quick  sense 
of  shame  the  words  he  had  used  to  her. 

Tom  stepped  forward  once  more  to  sing  without 
music  a  Christmas  carol,  and  as  the  people  settled 
down  again  to  listen,  the  Vicar's  gaze  rested  on  a 
fair  woman,  in  a  plain  black  dress,  who  stood  in  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  girls,  with  a  slpeping  baby  in  her 
arms,  and  listened  to  the  simplo  carol,  with  a  tender 
smile  on  her  lips,  and  an  expression  of  loving  com- 
passion in  her  eyes  as  they  wandered  round  the 
curious  assembly. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  the  conscience-stricken  clergy- 
man exclaimed.  *'  She  looks  like  a  blessed  Madonna, 
and  I  called  her  a  painted  Jezebel ! " 

He  was  an  impulsive  man,  and  he  saw  his  error. 
As  soon  as  the  carol  was  over  he  pushed  his  way  to 
Miss  Maloney' s  side,  and  turning  towards  the  aston- 
ished crowd,  said  :  "  Friends,  I  want  you  all  to  hear 
me  tell  Miss  Maloney  that  I  am  bitterly  ashamed  for 
what  I  said  to  her  yesterday.  I  was  wholly  in  the 
wrong.  She  is  doing  you  all  far  more  real  good  than 
I  ever  did.  She  is  the  best  friend  you  have  ever  had." 


id." 


3 

o 


t« 


o 
o 


s 


i 


r 


"^. 


•'-!.!• 


MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE.      233 

Then  he  offered  his  hand  to  Mary  with  a  bow  of 
penitent  reverence,  and  when  she  had  meekly  sub- 
mitted to  his  warm  clasp,  he  hurried  away  without 
another  word. 

*'  Well !  that  were  a  rum  start,"  said  the  leading 
politician  of  the  company;  "but  it  ain't  the  first 
time  as  the  Church  and  the  vested  interests  'as  shook 
'ands,  and  it  won't  be  the  last." 


Many  Christmas  Eves  have  come  and  gone  ;  the 
Vicar  and  Miss  Maloney  are  firm  friends  now,  and 
have  many  ways  of  helping  one  another.  Neither  of 
them,  perhaps,  sees  much  result  of  endless  labour. 
The  parish  of  St.  Matthias-in-the-Fields  is  not  yet 
composed  solely  of  devout,  decent  Churchmen  and 
Churchwomen.  Drunkenness  still  brings  its  atten- 
dant train  of  vice  and  want,  disease  and  sorrow,  to 
darken  the  lives  of  the  men  and  women  who  herd  in 
the  still  low  neighbourhood  of  Maloney's  public- 
house.  But  the  Vicar  has  got  a  new  hobby.  He 
buys  up  all  the  public-houses  he  can,  and  finds  among 
his  devotees  ladies  (as  much  like  Miss  Maloney  as 
possible)  to  manage  them.  There  is  no  saying  what 
results  may  be  produced — in  time. 

And  Mary  is  content.  She  knows  that  here  and 
there  a  man  who  was  once  a  drunkard  is  sober  now ; 
and  that  no  one  gets  any  harm  now,  even  when  not 
capable  of  getting  good,  from  her  public-house.  She 
knows  that  here  and  there  she  has  saved  an  outcast 


234      MISS  MALONEY'S  PUBLIC-HOUSE, 

and  brought  hope  to  the  desolate ;  and  after  all 
what  are  great  results  but  a  multitude  of  little 
changes  ? 

The  Vicar  of  St.  Matthias  is  still  unmarried,  and 
will  never  marry.  But  if  ever  his  principles  are  put 
to  the  test,  it  is  when  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  Mary's 
bright  hair  and  sweet  face  through  the  windows  of 
Maloney's  public-house. 


Nw... 


.•■::;:■.;  3  V 


THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  THE  GOLDEN 

STAK. 


.'^^^^ 


'tlTolb  to  A  Chilb. 


By    a.    S.    BOYD. 


NCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  great  tree 
that  grew  by  the  river  just  outside  tlie 
village,  and  the  children  used  to  come 
and  play  under  it.  It  was  so  very  tall 
that  they  thought  the  branches  at  the 
top  must  touch  the  sky,  and  it  was  said 
that  if  any  one  climbed  to  the  very  highest  branch  of 
that  tree  and  cut  off  one  of  the  white  ^^ands  that 
grew  there  he  could  reach  up  to  the  sky  and  bring 
down  with  it  a  golden  star. .  And  whoever  did  this 
might  get  whatever  he  wished  for,  even  the  dearest 
wish  of  his  heart. 

Well,  of  all  the  children  who  now  played  under 
the  tree  not  one  had  ever  tried  to  climb  it.  ITiere 
was,  indeed,  an  old,  old  story  of  somebody  who  had, 
long  ago,  made  the  attempt ;  he  went  up  a  little  way 


236     THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR. 


— just  high  enough  for  tlie  leaves  to  hide  nearly  all 
the  ground  underneath,  but  he  got  frightened,  so  ho 
came  down  and  said  that  it  was  impossible  to  go  to 
the  top. 

But  there  was  a  boy  called  Martin  Hazel  who  often 
looked  up  into  the  green  branches  of  tho  tree,  and 
sometimes  ho  would  stop  playing  for  such  a  long 
time,  and  would  keep  looking  up  so  earnestly,  that 
the  other  boys  and  the  girls  would  begin  to  tease 
him  and  ask  if  he  thought  he  could  climb  so  high. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  can." 

At  last  one  day  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  must  try.** 
Then  some  of  the  boys  helped  him  on  to  the  lowest 
branch,  and  he  began  to  climb,  and  climb,  an -^  climb. 
He  Lad  not  thought  it  was  quite  so  difficu  task, 
but  he  did  not  allow  himself  to  rest  very  often  on  the 
way,  and  at  last  he  reached  the  top.  How  strange  it 
was  to  be  there  !  So  lonely  and  so  quiet ;  there  was 
not  a  sound  from  the  village  far  down  below,  not 
even  the  shouts  of  the  children  could  reach  so  high. 
And  the  branches  of  the  tree  spread  out  so  widely 
that  he  could  see  nothing  beneath  him  but  endless 
green  leaves,  while  over  his  head  the  stars  were  shin- 
ing in  the  blue  sky,  and  around  him  as  he  stood  on 
the  highest  branch  were  the  wands  of  pure  white. 
His  hind  grasped  one  of  them,  and  he  took  the 
strong  knife  which  his  father  had  given  him  on  his 
birthday  and  he  cut  that  one  off.  Then  he  reached 
up  to  the  sky  with  the  white  wand,  and  he  could 
scarcely  believe  his  eyes  when  he  saw  that  on  the 


THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR.    237 


>» 


end  of  it  lie  had  brought  down  one  of  the  golden 
stars  which  ho  had  chosen.      With  this  wonderful 

thing  really  his  ho  felt  very 
happy,  for  ho  thought  how 
the  girls  and  boys  would 
admire  him,  how  proud  his 


-^•-.^ 


mother  would  be,  and  how  his  father  would  praise 
bim  for  being  such  a  brave  fellow.  ^ 


I 


238     THE  WHITE  W^ND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR. 

Then  down  the  tree  he  came.  Going  downwards 
was  not  difficult,  and  Martin  did  not  take  long  to 
roach  the  lower  branches.  Beneath  him  he  could  see 
the  children  still  playing.  Then  the  crackling  of  a 
branch  made  them  look  up,  and  with  something  like 
a  scream  of  fright,  they  all  ran  away.  Martin  smiled, 
and  as  his  feet  once  more  touched  the  grass,  he 
looked  round  to  see  what  had  made  the  children  nm 
away.  He  could  see  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  and  he 
heard  no  sound  except  the  singing  of  the  birds  and 
the  noise  of  the  sheep  as  they  cropped  the  grass. 
And  as  he  listened  the  clock  began  to  chime  in  the 
old  church  steeple. 

It  was  disappointing  that  the  boys  had  not  waited 
to  see  him  come  down  with  the  white  wand  in  his 
hand  and  the  golden  star  glittering  at  the  end  of  it, 
but  that  made  him  all  the  more  eager  to  hurry  home 
and  tell  his  mother. 

Near  his  mother's  door  which  was  at  the  entrance 
to  the  village,  Martin  saw  some  children  whom  he 
(lid  not  know.  While  he  was  wondering  who  they 
Cjuld  be — for  strangers  were  not  often  seen  in  this 
place — they  turned  away  with  a  laugh  that  was  nearly 
a  cry  and  ran  down  the  street.  Then  he  opened  the 
door  of  his  mother's  house,  and  a  woman  he  had 
never  seen  before,  who  was  sitting  by  the  fire  inside, 
with  a  baby  on  her  knee,  looked  up  and  said  sharply, 
**  Nothing  to-day." 

"  Where's  my  mother,"  said  Martin. 

*'  Yov^T  mother  !  "  and  the  woman  laughed,      *     ' 


I 


TAR. 


THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR.    239 


iwards 
3ng  to 
lid  see 
ig  of  a 
ig  like 
smiled, 
iss,   he 
en  run 
and  he 
rds  and 
1  grass. 
in  the 


waited 

in  his 

i  of  it, 

jy  home 

Intrance 

10m  he 

(10  they 

in  this 

nearly 

led  the 

Ihe  had 

inside, 

sharply, 


"  Yes,  my  own  mother,  and  my  father  ;  this  is  our 
house." 

"  This  is  my  house,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  was 


my  mother's  house  ever  since  old  Betsy  died,  years 


ago. 


"  Betsy  is  my  mothers  name ;  father  calls  her 
Betsy." 

"  That  may  be,  that  may  1 0,  hut  there's  nohody  of 
that  name  here,"  said  this  cross  woman.  Then  she 
turned  Martin  rather  roughly  from  the  door,  and  shut 
it  behind  him  with  a  bang, 


240     THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR. 


There  was  a  shout  of  laughter  in  the  street.  It 
■was  the  time  when  the  young  men  were  coming  home 
after  having  finished  their  day's  work  in  the  fields. 
They  had  seen  some  one  pushed  out  of  a  house,  and 
had  heard  a  door  slam,  and  they  thought  it  was  a 
good  joke,  so  they  laughed  again. 

"  Hallo,  old  man,  who  has  been  ill-using  you  ?  " 
they  asked,  as  they  gathered  round  the  boy  who  had 
been  turned  from  the  door  of  his  mother's  house. 

Martin  looked  round,  but  he  saw  no  old  man. 
Then  one  of  the  young  fellows  taj^ped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  said, 

"  They'll  give  you  nothing  in  that  house." 
"  I  don't  want  anything,"  said  Martin  :  "  that  is 
our  house,  and  I  have  something  to  tell  my  mother." 
How  the  young  men  laughed  ! 
"  Yes,  you  are  strangers  and  you  don't  know  her, 
and  you  don't  know  me  ;  but  she'll  be  glad  I'm  down 
safely  from  the  top  of  the  tree ;  and  with  this  I'm 
going  to  make  her  happy."     He  held  out  his  white 
wand  with  the  golden  star  glittering  on  the  end  of  it, 
but  to  the  young  men  it  seemed  only  a  plain  stick. 
So  they  looked  at  one  another  seriously  as  if  they 
were  sorry  for  him,  and  they  said — "  Poor  old  man  !" 
Then   they  left   him,  and  he  walked  along  the 
street,  for  the  sun  was  setting  and  it  was  near  the 
time  when  he  should  go  to  meet  his  father  coming 
from  his  work. 

The  people  stood  at  their  doors  and  stared  at  him 
curiously  as  he  passed.     IJe  knew  none  of  them  and 


STAR. 


THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR.    241 


set.  It 
y  home 
I  fields, 
se,  and 
,  was  a 

vou  ?  " 

V 

ho  had 
se. 

d  man. 
on  the 


that  is 
>ther." 

ow  her, 
n  down 
lis  I'm 

white 
d  of  it, 

stick. 
if  they 
man !" 
ng  the 
jar  the 


commg 


at  him 
;m  and 


none  of  them  spoke  to  him ;  so  he  felt  troubled. 
Then  he  met  a  very  old  woman.  It  was  at  last  some 
one  he  knew — old  Margaret,  the  grandmother  of  one 


of  the  little  girls  who  played  every  day  at  the  foot  of 
the  tree.     He  stopped  her. 

"  Did  Mary  tell  you  I  had  gone  up  the  tree  to- 
day ? " 

*'  What  Mary  ? "  asked  the  old  woman. 

**  Mary  Wood,  your  own  grandchild,  who  lives  witL 
you,"  said  Martiu.  ':  -      ^ 


242-    THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR. 

"  I  am  Mary  Wood,  and  I've  no  grandchild  left," 
said  the  old  woman. 

"  But  do  you  not  know  me  ? " 

"  I  never  saw  you  before,"  said  Mary  "Wood. 

"  But  I  went  up  the  great  tree  this  morning,  and 
I've  got  the  white  wand  and  the  golden  star !  " 

"  What  tree  ? " 

"The  great  tree  by  the  river,  where  we   always 
play,"  said  Martin. 

"  Ah,  now  I  do  remember,"  said  the  old  woman  • 
"  there  was  a  boy  I  knew  who  climbed  up  the  great  tree 
— as  we  used  to  call  it.  That  was  a  long  time  ago — 
when  we  were  little  children.  He  never  came  back  again." 
"  What  did  they  call  the  boy  ?  " 
"  What  did  they  call  him  ?  Dear,  dear  !  what  did 
they  call  him  ?  Ah,  yes,  Hazel  was  his  name,  Martin 
Hazel,  and  he  lived  in  that  very  house,  v/itli  his  father 
and  mother  :  but  they  are  dead  these  many,  many 
years,  and  Martin  never  came  back.  No,  he  never 
came  back." 

Then  Martin  felt  all  at  once  that  the  old  woman 
spoke  of  him,  and  that  he  himself  was  older  even 
than  she  was.  For  in  climbing  the  tree  he  had  for- 
gotten about  everything  and  everybody  ;  in  his  eager- 
ness quite  forgetting  that  Time  was  passing,  and  that 
it  was  a  long,  long  distance  from  the  foot  to  the  top  of 
the  tree.  But  Time  was  passing  all  tl.  3  same,  and  had 
in  passing  left  its  marks  as  strongly  on  Martin  as  on 
everybody  else.  He  looked  at  his  hands — they  were 
thin  and  yellow  ;  he  saw  that  his  clothes  were  worn  ; 


THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR.    243 

his  back  and  liis  knees  were  bent.  The  years  that 
had  gone  by  had  seemed  to  hiji  only  one  day ;  and 
that  day  was  now  nearly  over.  He  was  all  that  re- 
mained of  the  strong  boy  who  climbed  the  tree  for 
the  wonderful  treasure  at  the  top,  and,  now  that 
he    treasure  was  his,  there  was  nobody  who  knew 


i  that 
top  of 
d  had 

as  on 
were 

,vorn ; 


him  to  say  "  Well  done  ! " — nobody  left  who  could 
take  pleasure  in  his  prize. 

Then  sadly,  and  Avith  a  heavy  heart,  he  walked 
slowly  back  through  the  village  in  which  ho  was 
born,  where  nobody  knew  him  and  where  he  knew 
nobody.     Wandering  on,  his  steps  led  him  back  to 


244    THE  WHITE  WAND  AND  GOLDEN  STAR, 

the  foot  of  the  great  tree.  Here  he  sat  down,  and 
because  the  world  was  empty  of  all  the  faces  he  had 
cared  to  look  at,  he  bowed  his  head  and  wept.  As 
he  thought  of  his  old  friends  he  wished  with  all  his 
heart  that  he  might  see  them  and  be  happy  with 
them  again.  And  while  he  was  crying  and  longing, 
with  the  white  wand  in  his  hand  and  the  golden  star 
glittering  on  the  top  of  it,  he  was  gently  lifted  up, 
and  up,  and  up,  till  the  golden  star  found  its  own 
place  in  the  sky.  And  there  the  white  wand  grew 
into  a  lovely  flower  that  would  never  wither.  And 
there  he  saw  his  father  and  liis  mother;  and  every- 
body he  loved  was  there  ;  and  nothing  was  there  but 
perfect  happiness. 

And  so  he  got  what  he  wished  for,  even  the  dearest 
wish  of  his  heart. 


'^^Mm 


<J'^~^'!i 


A  SPRIG  OF  LAYENDEU. 

cdfottnlcli  on  #.ict. 
By  A.  M.  CAMERON. 

'*  On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs, 
In  the  heavens  a  perfect  round." 

R,   BUOAVNIXO. 

OMETHING  Avas  amiss  with  Lady  Bess  to- 
night ;  that  was  clear. 

The  men  who,  with  pi^DO  in  mouth  and 
>  ;dr  jug  in  hand,  sat  about  the  room, 
glanced  from  time  to  time  Avith  a  rough  but 
not  unkindly  curiosity,  at  th*^  drooping 
shoulders  of  the  girl  who,  with  bowed  head 
resting  on  her  crossed  arms,  had  so  remained,  almost 
motionless,  for  the  last  half-hour  and  more.  Only  a 
quick,  impatient  movement  of  the  handsome  shoulders, 
as  from  time  to  time  some  one  of  her  companions 
sought  to  rouse  her,  testified  to  the  fact  that  Lady 
Bess  was  sober,  not  drunk ;  thinking,  not  asleep. 


146 


A  SPRtG  OP  LA  VtlNDEk. 


I 


The  nickname,  given  to  lier  many  years  ago,  suited 
her  strangely  well,  and  had  clung  to  her  ever  since. 
Even  the  women,  her  companions,  poor,  fallen,  down- 
trodden creatures  as  they  were,  accepted  the  title  as 
her  due,  and  remembered,  with  what  was  left  to  them 
of  pride,  that  she,  Lady  ]3ess,  belonged  to  this  their 
own  particular  haunt.  It  was  not  only  that  the 
veriest  rag  she  chose  to  don  became  at  once  a  more 
dignified  mantle  than  all  the  ^inery  they  could  muster, 
but  that  there  was  about  he>  personal  bearing  a  name- 
less something,  a  barrier  of  reserve,  a  reticence  about 
all  matters  not  touching  on  her  poor  mundane  jire- 
sent,  which  none  of  them  dared  seek  to  jjrobe.  In  a 
word,  she  was  "  Lady  "  Bess. 

She  rose  from  her  crouching  position  at  last,  this 
grandly  built,  sin- stained  woman.  The  room  was 
so  stiflingly  hot,  the  men's  voices  so  shrill  and 
loud. 

One  of  them  just  now,  in  passing,  had  laid  his 
hand,  with  rough  familiarity,  on  the  bowed  head. 
"Come  and  have  a  drink,  lass,"  he  had  suggested, 
offering  for  her  comfort  his  own  one  infallible  remedy. 
But  at  the  touch  she  had  sprung  up,  and  with  black 
eyes  dilated,  pale  cheeks  flushed,  and  fists  clenched, 
would  have  struck  him  then  and  there,  had  he  not, 
with  a  laugh  a.id  an  oath,  made  good  his  escape. 

Then  sh..,  too,  left  the  room  and  stood  for  a 
moment  at  the  door.  The  air  was  still  and  heavy 
this  hot  August  evening,  but  at  this  hour  che  street 
was  comparatively  quiet,  and  sitting  down  on  the 


A  SPRIG  OF  LA  VENDER. 


42/ 


door-step,  the  girl  once  more  leant  her  forcUfzad  on 
her  hands,  and  thought. 

Only  twenty,  and  so  sin- defiled  ! 

Only  twenty,  and  this  her  birthday  ! 

Only  twenty,  and  such  a  weary  vista  of  years 
flowing  on  in  xiiaddening  monotony  before  her — dull, 
heavy,  merciless  as  the  tide  of  that  dark  river  which 
rolled  on  and  ever  onwards  only  some  few  hundred 
yards  behind  her,  and  over  whose  black  mysteries 
she  had  lately  dreamed  so  much. 

How  many  years  ago  was  it — four  ?  five  ?  or  an 
eternity,  since  the  day  on  which  she  had  left  father, 
mother,  purity,  home,  heaven  ? 

How  many  since  she  had  tasted  to  the  full  of  the 
tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  and  found  its  fruit 
bitter,  so  unutterably  bitter  ? 

Were  they  thinking  of  her  now  ?  Not  speaking, 
oh,  no,  never  speaking ;  yet  as  this  was  her  birthday- 
evening,  thinking,  perhaps,  for  a  moment  even  of  her. 
Were  they  alive  to  think  ?  Would  they  know  her  if 
they  saw  her  now  ?  Would  they  ivisli  to  know  her  ? 
Were  the  roses  thick  and  sweet  over  the  little  porch  ? 
Was  the  lavender  s23ringing  fresh  and  rare  along  the 
garden  paths  ?  Were  the  tiny  waves  lapping  to-night 
against  the  quiet  churchyard  where  the  one  sister, 
the  one  daughter  now  lay  sleeping?  Did  they  wish- 
sometimes  there  were  two  graves  there,  not  one  ? 

Raising  her  dry  and  burning  eyes   presently,  an 
angry  light  shone  in  them ;  for  standing  opposite  to . 
her  on  the  dusty  pavement,  contemplating  the  bowed 


248 


A   SPRIG  OF  LA  VENDER, 


figure  witli  a  sort  of  pationt  wonder,  was  a  boy, 
rough,  dirt-begrimed,  travel-stained,  but  who,  never- 
theless, had  something  of  a  cotmtry  savour  about 
him  ;  cheeks  that,  with  fair  play,  would  be  rosy  still  ; 
hair  bleached  almost  white  by  a  sun  that  had  shono 
down  on  fields,  not  streets. 

As  I  said,  the  girl  on  the  doorstep  glanced  at  him, 
angrily  enough  at  first.  Was  there  no  place  on  God's 
earth  where  a  poor,  hunted  creature  could  sit  down 
for  a  space  to  think  her  own  sad  thoughts,  unmo- 
lested ?  Yet  gradually  the  angry  light  in  the  dark 
eyes  died  away,  and  a  softened,  almost  wistful,  ex- 
pression took  its  place.  For,  as  those  eyes  wandered 
over  the  dusty  figure  before  her,  from  the  frank,  sun- 
burnt face  to  the  clumsy,  country-made  coat,  they 
suddenly  lighted  on  a  something,  a  little  shrivelled- 
up  something,  in  the  boy's  button -hole,  such  a  poor 
worthless    thinjr  —  nothinjr    more    than    a 


sprig 


of 


withered  lavender. 

Then  Lady  Bess  rose  suddenly,  her  tall  figure 
almost  filling  the  narrow  doorway,  and  demanded 
fiercely  what  he  wanted  there?  '     '    ■  .  •  • 

"  Only  a  wash  and  a  bed,  miss,"  the  lad  answered, 
pointing  to  a  written  announcement  in  the  window, 
and  looking  at  her  Avith  a  somewhat  astonished  ex- 
pression in  his  honest  blue  eyes. 

Bess  thought  a  minute,  her  glance  still  dwelling, 
not  on  the  boy's  face,  but  on  that  dead  sprig  in  his 
coat ;  then,  after  peeping  furtively  behind  her  into 
the  noisy,  beer-reeking  room,  she  turned  to  him  once 


A   SPRIG  OF  LA  VENDER. 


249 


more  touclied  him  quickly  on  the  arm,  and  whispering 
hurriedly,  "Follow  me,"  darted  like  a  shadow  down 
the  street. 

The  boy,  wondering,  paused  a  moment,  uncertain 
whether  to  follow.  Aware  of  this,  she  turned,  and, 
looking  back,  beckoned  him  half-angrily,  half-beseech- 
ingly,  onward. 

In  and  out  she  led  him,  through  narrow  lanes  and 
alleys,  foul  and  loathsome,  where  God's  fair  sunshine 
fell  shadowed,  and  His  sweet  breezes  tainted  and 
heavy ;  where  even  His  little  children  had  ceased  to 
be  child-like. 

At  last,  when  they  had  reached  comparatively 
wider,  lighter  streets,  whose  atmosphere  was  some- 
what less  suffocating,  she  paused  in  the  shade  of  a 
high  wall,  and,  bending  down,  whispered  breathlessly 
in  his  ear. 

"  I  can't  go  further  than  this ;  turn  that  corner, 
and  knock  at  the  door  of  the  tirst  house  on  your  right — 
there's  a  brass  plate  on  it — tell  them  what  you  want, 
they'll  take  you  in,  and  may  be,"  she  added,  with  a  short 
laugh,  "may  be  you'll  find  the  lodgings  there  a  bit 
cheaper  than,  down  at  our  place  ;  any  way,  you  can 
but  try."  She  paused  an  instant,  then,  laying  her 
thin  hand  on  his  arm,  said,  quick  and  low,  "  You'll 
let  your  mother  know  where  you  are,  first  thing, 
won't  you  ?  You've  tramped  far  to-day,  I  can  see, 
and  she'll  be  wondering  about  you." 

The  boy  opened  his  blue  eyes  wider.  >    -- - 

Mother !   why  you  don't  think  I'd  have  come 


2;o 


A  SPIUG  OF  LA  VENDER. 


away  if  there  had  been  mother  to  leave,  do  you  ? 
I'm  alone,  miss ;  leastways,  unless  you  count  Aunt 
Sal,  and  she's  mostly  drunk.  She  thought  it  a  good 
plan,  too,  that  I  should  tramp  uj)  and  see  what 
London  could  do  for  me ;  so  I  came.  I  hardly 
fancied  it  would  be  so  big,  though,"  he  added. 

"Ay,  it's  big,"  she  answered,  "big  and  lonesome. 
God  in  heaven  knows  that." 

The  other  shuffled  about  for  a  minute,  awkwardly 
enough,  his  hands  thrust  deep  down  in  his  coat 
pockets.     Presently  he  blurted  out, 

"  I'd  like  to  thank  you,  miss,  and  to  know  your 
name,  if  you  please.  Mine's  Ned.  I  haven't  much 
money,  so  to  speak,  but  if " 

"  I  don't  want  your  money,"  she  retorted,  the 
sharp  ring  returning  to  her  voice  once  more. 

"  And  can't  I  do  anything  for  you,  miss  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  eagerly,  greedily.  "  Let  me 
have  that  sprig  of  lavender,  will  you  ?  You  don't 
want  it,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Want  it  ?  'tain't  worth  much  to  anybody  now,  I 
reckon,  but  take  it,  and  welcome ;  it  was  pretty 
enough  when  I  gathered  it  yesterday  morning,"  and 
he  held  it  out  to  her. 

"  Thank  you  ;  it's  worth  more  to  me  than  you 
could  understand,  lad.  Bess  is  my  name.  Lady 
Bess  they  call  me." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  adding  hurriedly,  "  If  you 
ever  pray,  you  might  remember  that  name  in  your 
prayers  now  and  again,"  turned  from  him  and  sped 


A   SPRIG  OF  LA  VENDER. 


25' 


away,  a  dim  sliudow  \u  tlie  quickly  darkoniug  London 
streets. 

An  hour  later,  and  the  men  in  that  lodging-honso 
Laughed  to  sec  liow  the  drink  could  make  Lady  Bess 

dance  and  sing. 

•  «  •  *  •  • 

Only  a  few  years  afterwards.  Again  an  August 
evening,  hot  and  airless. 

But  in  the  quiet  wards  of  the  hospital  its  heat  was 
tempered  to  the  sufferers  ;  flowers  made  their  sweet- 
ness felt ;  loving  hands  funned  and  moistened  throb- 
bing brows. 

There  were  many  souls  collected  in  those  wards 
to-night,  many  young  faces  lying  on  the  white  \A\~ 
lows,  waiting  patiently,  or  impatiently,  as  the  case 
might  be,  for  the  call  to  higher  altitudes  and  fairer 
climes.  For  the  disease  to  which  this  hospital  sought 
to  minister  was  one  whose  victims  are  gathered  most 
from  among  the  ranks  of  yorng  and  ardent  spirits, 
setting  out  often  so  eagerly  and  hopefully  on  life's 
race. 

•  The  chaplain,  good  man,  had  been  moving  gently 
from  bed  to  bed,  saying  his  usual  quiet  word  of 
strength  and  comfort  to  each,  ere  night  closed  in, 
and  the  rooms  were  still  till  morning. 

He  had  passed  through  the  women's  ward,  and 
had  well-nigh  finished  his  service  of  love  among  the 
men,  but  he  lingered  last  and  longest  beside  one  bed, 
a  young  man's  bed.  He  knew  his  story — that  of  a 
friendless  lad  found  wandering  in  the  dreary  loneli- 


252 


A   SPRIG  OF  LAVENDER. 


ness  of  a  great  town's  streets,  befriended,  sent  abroad, 
made  a  man  of,  and  a  prosperous  man,  too.  Then, 
God's  hand  laid  on  him  and  his  work,  the  short  span 
of  probation  well-nigh  ended  ;  a  voyage  home  over 
the  seas  he  liad  crossed  so  liopefully,  so  gladly,  only  a 
few  years  before  ;  now  a  brave  patience  and  a  quiet 
wailing  for  the  restful  landing  on  another  and  more 
distant  shore. 

It  was  a  very  bright  face  that  lay  on  that  par- 
ticular pillow,  beside  which  the  chaplain  now  stood, 
— a  fiiir  face,  almost  child-like,  in  spite  of  its  one- 
and-twenty  years. 

"  Ha2:>py,  Ned  ?  Quite  hap^^y  ?  Ready  to  go  when 
the  call  comes  ?  " 

"Quite  happy,  sir,"  answers  Ned,  as  the  smile 
grows  brighter.  "Hardly  a  wish  left  if  you  could 
but  find  and  thank  that  girl,  and  tell  her  what  slie 
did  for  me  that  night.  Poor  Lady  Bess,"  he  added 
wistfully,  "  perhaps  I  may  thank  you  myself  some 
da}^  after  all." 

The  chaplain  started  ;  an  idea  had  struck  him. 

"  Ned,  just  wait  a  bit,  my  man.  I  won't  be  long ; 
pray  God  it's  not  too  late  ;  may  be  you  shall  send 
that  message  yet/'  and  smiling  joyfully,  he  hurried 
away. 

.Speeding  quickly  across  the  intervening  passages, 
he  re-entered  the  women's  ward.  All  was  quiet 
there,  but  at  the  far  end  a  screen  was  drawn  round  a 
little  bed.  He  passed  behind  it.  Yes,  God  was 
merciful,  the  candle  of  life  flickered  still. 


A   SPRIG  OF  LA  VENDER. 


253 


Propped  up  on  pillows,  but  leaning  softest  on  her 
mother's  breast — the  dark  curls,  once  that  mother's 
pride,  lying  tossed  in  pathetic  confusion  over  the 
pilloAv  not  whiter  than  the  worn  cheek  on  which  the 
long,  dark  lashes  rested  now — lay  a  woman,  young 
indeed  and  handsome  still,  but  wasted,  sin-stained, 
sorely  bruised  ;  by  her  side  a  cup  of  lavender,  over 
her  head  the  name  "  Elizabeth." 

"  Bess,"  whispered  the  chaplain  softly ;  "  Lady 
Bess,"  lie  repeated  once  again,  and  waited  eagerly  for 
the  answer. 

The  dark  eyes  opened,  the  parched  lips  moved. 
"  Yes,"  she  murmured. 

"Once,"  he  continued,  his  lips  close  to  tl  o  ear 
almost  deaf  now  to  sounds  on  earth,  "once,  the 
Master  whom  you  would  now  so  fain  have  served, 
promised  that  the  least  kind  deed  done  to  the  poorest 
or  lowest  of  His  children  should  be  as  done  to  Him. 
Bess,  I  have  heard  to-night  of  a  boy  called  Ned ;  do 
you  remember  ? " 

A  smile,  a  strange,  half-incredulous  smile,  broke 
over  the  girl's  pale  ftice,  and  seeing  it,  the  chaplain 
continued  quickly. 

"  Bess,  Ned  is  going  homo  too,  and  when,  very 
soon,  you  and  he  meet  before  that  Master's  feet,  I 
think  you  will  be  glad,  for  through  your  means  Ned 
knows  to-night  that  he  is  going  to  a  much-loved 
Friend  besides."    ' 

As  he  spoke  the  smile  waxed  brighter  and  brighter 
yet,  and  at  last  the  weak  voice  whispered  wonderingly, 


25  + 


A  SPRIG   OF  LA  VENDER. 


"  That,  sir,  will  the  Maste;:  remember  such  a  little 
thing  as  that  ?  " 

"  *  Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the 
least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye  have  clone  it  unto  Me,'  " 
came  the  answer,  soft  and  low. 

*****  «v 

When  morning  dawned,  Lady  Bess  had  gone  home, 
but  a  smile,  peaceful  as  that  of  a  little  child,  rested 
on  the  dead  face  still. 

Later  on,  in  turning  over  her  poor  things,  they 
came  upon  something  wrapped  carefully  away  in  an 
old  piece  of  paper — it  was  a  sprig  of  withered 
lavender. 


THE   END. 


.,  I. 


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I 


